All Bets Are Off
by Zachary Fice
Summary: Draco isn't gay and Harry doesn't date guys, but rules are made to be broken and love finds a way.  Draco/Harry, Highschool AU  Warning: MATURE CONTENT...but romance later, too.
1. Chapter 1: Friction

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. I'm not making any money.

**Chapter One|** Friction

"Friction—the rubbing together of two objects, or the effort expended in moving one object over another with pressure," said Harry, his voice a bored monotone as he recited from the text without so much as a spare glance in Draco's direction.

The football player scowled, crossing his arms behind his head and kicking his legs out onto the desk in front of him, tilting his chair onto its back two legs as he did so. It was almost four thirty. He'd been stuck listening to the geek ramble about physics for nearly an hour now, and it wasn't getting any easier. If anything, the things he said seemed to make less and less sense as time wore on.

"And what's that supposed to mean, Potter?" he muttered sourly, speaking up for the first time in at least half an hour. He'd been zoning out for most of it, but his "tutor" didn't seem to care much. "You expect me to believe friction is like…sex?"

Harry's pen faltered on his paper, and a faint smirk tugged at Draco's lips. Finally, something that riled the kid; he'd begun to think he was sharing a room with a robot.

"Ohh, I'm sorry…I forgot," he crooned sarcastically. "Nerds don't have sex…so you wouldn't know, would you?" Behind his book, Harry frowned, shifting slightly, but saying nothing. Draco's smirk grew. "You're really missing out, you know," he said, purposefully lowering his voice as he brought his chair down and leaned forward onto the desk. "Sex is like…well…like everything you said about friction or whatever…except a lot less science and a lot more…" He finished the sentence with several vulgar grunts and an exaggeratedly high-pitched moan. Harry almost dropped his pencil, his pale skin doing nothing to hide a heavy blush, and for some reason, Draco's cock twitched at the sight.

With faintly trembling fingers, Harry pushed his glasses up higher on his nose and set his book down, leveling his gaze determinedly with Draco's. "First," he said, "having a working brain between my ears does not automatically mean I know nothing about sex; second, yes, friction is involved during sex, as it is with almost any form of physical contact, but no, that is not the definition and third, I hope to God those last sounds weren't a reenactment of your last sexual escapade…unless you've been really busy fucking a dairy farm."

It was Draco's turn to blush. "Yeah, well," he stuttered awkwardly. "What would you know about it, huh?" he sniped. "I bet you've never gotten off in your life…cuddle your homework all night long…or do you masturbate to your textbooks? Maybe pictures of your little speckle-faced, redheaded friend?"

Harry scowled, looking every bit the part of someone dying to say a great deal, but unwilling to stoop low enough to do so. "The last time I 'got off' is really none of your business," he said tightly, "especially since the point of this tutoring session is to pull up your abysmal grade point average, but if you'd really rather talk about the finer points of my sex life, then by all means, keep going. We only have a few minutes left anyway."

Draco crossed his arms, scowling. "If there were finer points in your sex life, Potter, you wouldn't be half as prissy about it. You don't know anything about getting off."

"Fifty bucks says I could bring you off faster than any girlfriend you ever had," muttered Harry beneath his breath, his words so quiet that at first Draco thought he imagined it. Then, to his horror, he found himself trying to figure out how fast that was. Oddly enough, Pansy had actually timed them once.

After coming up with a number, Draco debated for all of two seconds before saying very clearly, "Four minutes, thirty-two seconds."

Harry looked up sharply, obviously not expecting that answer, and Draco almost felt smug. Then, Harry's gaze flickered fleetingly to the clock, and it really should not have turned Draco on the way it did. He was straight. He knew that. And besides, geeks were not hot—especially not when they drew their bottom lip between their teeth and worried it anxiously, or wet their lips and fidgeted in their seat…

"Deal," was all the warning Draco received.

For one terrifying second, he thought Harry was going to kiss him, but then, he just yanked the chair around—with surprising force for such a small figure, Draco noted—and dropped to his knees. Draco's hormones went on a field day. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a little voice whispered that he was about to lose fifty bucks, but he quickly squashed it. Harry's hand was between his legs, providing glorious pressure to a straining lump in his jeans that definitely shouldn't have been there, and _oh_ he didn't want it to stop for the world. Swearing beneath his breath, Draco's hands moved to grip the sides of his chair, and he grit his teeth.

"You know," he panted, working very hard to keep from bucking outright into the palm currently drawing circles around his erection and only halfway succeeding, "I'm…mm…I'm very…straight…" When Harry applied more pressure, Draco groaned, his head dropping back against the back of his chair and his body arching completely of its own accord.

"Hmm. Yes," said Harry. "I can tell."

"S-shut up," growled Draco. The effect was slightly marred moments later when his snap gave with a quiet pop and long, dexterous fingers slid boldly down his pants, circling his erection without a hint of hesitation and drawing an almost keening whimper from the seasoned football player. "That…that's not fair," he whined.

"What's not fair?" asked Harry, his hand giving a long, sure stroke to the heated flesh in his grip and simultaneously turning Draco's legs to Jell-O. "That you're gay?"

"I'm not-" Draco began, but then Harry's spare hand undid his fly and there were two hands moving on him, shaping him with a sculptor's grace and the air in his throat burned and scratched like sandpaper on fire and he couldn't breathe and, "Fuck," he moaned, knuckles going white on the sides of his chair. "You…oh, shit, yes…_nngh_…not gay."

"Of course not," said Harry.

From the standpoint of trying to keep himself in check, Draco picked a very bad time to open his eyes—perhaps the worst possible time, even—because he was straight, and watching a skinny, four-eyed geek bring soft pink lips down around his cock absolutely positively should not have been the hottest fucking thing he had ever laid eyes on. When Harry glanced up, some distant part of Draco's mind vaguely noted that the boy really had very pretty green eyes behind those nerdy glasses. Then, his world shattered and he jerked with a strangled cry, praying fervently that there was no one left in the school to hear him as he came—hard.

The aftershocks were slow to wear off. As he sat, shaking, in his chair, Draco wondered offhandedly if it was strange that the best orgasm of his life had taken place in a physics classroom. His mind was hazy and his body felt like very satiated silly putty, so he decided not to worry about it for the time being.

He looked up just in time to see Harry spit in the wastebasket, and for some reason, the sight made him frown. Next time, he thought, he wanted to watch the boy swallow. The fact that he never questioned whether or not there would in fact be a 'next time' should have thrown up an immediate red flag. But it didn't.

"Your fly's undone," Harry commented as he walked back from the wastebasket to their study desk, running the back of his hand along his mouth and grimacing slightly. "Oh, and," Draco watched as he shoved his books haplessly into his backpack in one swoop, "two minutes and fifty-nine seconds." Harry zipped his pack promptly and slung it over his shoulder before turning to face Draco, expression deadpan and unreadable as he said, "You owe me fifty bucks."

Draco watched his retreating figure with an odd fascination. He briefly considered mentioning that they'd never shaken on it, but then Harry shut the door behind him with a click and he figured it was probably for the best anyway. Besides, it would be worth seeing the expression on his face tomorrow at school when he realized he would have to explain to his little nerd friends why Draco Malfoy, of all people, was openly handing him a fifty-dollar bill in the hallway.

_A/N:_ This is AU, so no magic, sorry. Draco is the captain of the football team and a quarterback. Harry is a cute geeky kid. Sometimes Draco will be a little OOC to fit with the "football player" stereotype (you know, somewhat dumb), and I know Harry is fit, too, but in this story he is a little more nerdy, but still hot. I like the popular kid/geek combo. Also...I know this sounds dumb to say but... this is my first story, so...please tell me if i mess up, or just if you like it or not... I know I'm not perfect but I want to improve. =)


	2. Chapter 2: Momentum

**Chapter Two| **Momentum

What had he been thinking? No, honestly, Harry mentally scolded himself, what in God's name could he _possibly_ have been thinking?

He shuffled his books to one arm and entered his locker combination, scowling only to himself. It wasn't that he was desperate; he knew that much. He didn't even want to be in a relationship—not really. And it wasn't that he needed money. Hell, there were certainly better ways if that were the problem.

Harry sighed as he opened his locker and squinted up at its disarrayed contents. Draco probably got blown twenty times a day anyway, he thought sourly. Maybe he was throwing the whole thing out of proportion and needn't really worry about it. Somehow, the thought didn't make him feel better.

"Harry!" He turned at the call, and Ron waved as he approached. "Hey, Harry, what's up?" he said, flopping against the locker beside him with a clattering bang and grinning like a madman. "You look…" Ron expression faltered for the first time. "Actually, you look a little down, mate," he said, frowning slightly. "You feelin' okay?"

Harry debated. Lie through his teeth to avoid further questioning? Or come up with a believable half-truth on the spot for a sympathetic ear?

Just as he started trying to figure out how he possibly could turn 'I sucked off Draco Malfoy yesterday in tutoring,' into a believable half-truth, Hermione came to the rescue.

"Hey, Harry," she said cheerily, coming up behind Ron and slipping an arm around his waist in a way that immediately explained his initial madman-in-love mood. Ron and Hermione had finally made up. Again. "How did that tutoring thing go yesterday?"

'_Way to get to the point_,' Harry thought mildly, trying not to frown as she tucked her chin against Ron's shoulder. "It was…interesting," he said, turning to his locker to politely avoid witnessing the not-so-discreet exchange of public affections going on between his two best friends. For some reason, it always made him uncomfortable to watch.

"Oh, yeah! I forgot you had that," said Ron. "So, is Draco as dumb as he looks, or dumber?" Hermione elbowed him reprovingly, and Ron grunted. "Okay, okay!" he surrendered. "I was just asking…"

"Well-" Harry began, but then, the topic of their conversation appeared across the hall, and he swallowed the rest of his sentence. '_Speak of the devil_,' he thought silently. In this case, a very tall, formidable looking blonde devil currently stalking towards them like a predator on the hunt. Perhaps Draco hadn't completely blown him off after all. Excuse the innuendo.

"Potter!" Draco barked in a voice more than loud enough to carry across the room, and Ron and Hermione looked up, apparently noticing him for the first time. "I believe," he said as he drew closer, "that I owe you something." His hand shook the locker as it came down inches to the left of Harry's head, caging him in.

Harry resisted the urge to gulp. "Oh?" he said, straightening his back and lifting his chin in his best impression of undaunted nonchalance. "Really?"

"Yeah," Draco purred, close now and grinning wickedly. "Really."

Harry felt a stab of empathy for the cornered mouse and gave up on nonchalance. His new goal was to keep his knees from going out from under him. "And what is that?" he said, hoping his voice sounded braver than he felt.

"Deal's a deal, Potter," said Draco, waving something under his nose, and Harry frowned.

"A…what?" Squinting, Harry pushed up his glasses, trying to focus on the object dangled before him. When he succeeded, heat swept up his neck, and he silently cursed himself. He hadn't expected Draco to actually pay. "But…when I said that I…you don't really have to-"

"Oh, but I do," murmured Draco huskily, further invading Harry's personal space with apparently no concern whatsoever for who saw. The smell of laundry detergent and cologne filled Harry's senses, and his pulse did a double take. "I'm a man of my word, and besides…" His hand felt hot on Harry's chest, pressing the air from his lungs and making one of the metal locker handles dig painfully into his back until he winced. "You _earned_ it."

Harry mentally cringed at the phrasing. Whores "_earned_" money that way, and Draco was making sure he caught the implication. "Technically, I really more won it than earned it," he pointed out, more for his own benefit than Draco's. "It was a bet, after all, not a business transaction."

Draco snorted, but let up. "Yeah, well. Whatever helps you sleep at night, Potty," he muttered. This time when he waved the bill, Harry snatched it, crushing it in his palm and hastily stuffing it in his pocket as if hiding evidence. Draco chuckled, and his stare sent a shiver down Harry's spine. "See you in physics," was all he said before he turned and disappeared amid the bustling throng.

"Okay…" said Hermione, looking utterly perplexed. "So what the heck was his problem?" she asked, glaring off down the hall in the general direction of Draco's disappearance. "And what was that he gave you, anyway? Harry…?"

As she was talking, Ron had caught Harry's eye, his expression concerned and questioning, but when she prompted him, Harry broke from Ron's stare to look at her. "What? Oh…it's, umm…" Harry's fingers crinkled around the bill in his pocket, and he frowned. "Fifty bucks," he said.

Hermione's eyes went wide. "_Fifty bucks?_ Harry-"

The bell rang.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief and shut his locker. "I'll tell you later," he said, and before either of his friends could protest, he fled into the masses in the direction of his next class.

The bell officially gave him until lunch hour to come up with a plausible excuse for winning fifty dollars off of Draco Malfoy—something other than blowing him in under three minutes flat, that is. As he shouldered his way through the undulating stream of his fellow peers, Harry felt confident he could think of something.

—

Six hours later, he was not quite so confident as he stepped into the virtually silent Merlin High Library. After Draco had avidly assured their physics teacher that the last tutoring session had "blown him away," that the "one on one action" had had fantastic results, and that he thought Harry had a lot of "underappreciated talent" he was sure he could benefit from, the teacher had jumped at the opportunity to keep them signed up for more sessions. Harry, almost speechless by that point, had managed to insist that they at least move to the library, as opposed to a locked physics classroom—safer, he hoped, though he didn't explain his motives to their teacher. Now, he stood alone in the library, a large textbook clutched to his chest as he sought out a suitable base of operations.

Eventually, he settled on an empty table near the back of the room and moved to it, dropping his backpack beside it and opening his book to their most recent lesson. Since Draco had yet to arrive, he set in on the homework. He didn't have to wait long.

Less than a minute into the first problem, the front doors banged open with a raucous clatter that blatantly defied any and every "quiet" rule usually applied to libraries and boldly announced the arrival of his "pupil." Not for the first time, Harry wondered what exactly he'd signed up for in agreeing to these sessions. Moments later, Draco himself appeared, swerving around to the opposite side of the table and tossing his bookbag to the ground with a resounding thud, as if his arrival had not already been made adequately apparent by his brash entrance. Harry frowned.

For lack of anything better to say, he muttered, "You're late."

Draco snorted. "And who's to say you're not just early?" he said, dropping into his chair and immediately stretching out to his full length, arms pulled over his head with a lazy yawn. "Eager for something?"

Harry ignored the taunt and turned the page in his text. "Just get out your homework and turn to 309 in your book. We were discussing momentum today, so I figure that's the best place to start."

Draco groaned audibly. "You can't be serious," he said, honestly incredulous as he eyed Harry's textbook like some vile creature from the black abyss coming to swallow his soul.

Harry looked up. "About what?" he asked.

"You…you are, aren't you?" Draco concluded desperately. "You _honestly_ want…to do homework."

Harry raised an eyebrow, stuck halfway between disbelief and amusement. "I thought it would be a logical place to begin, yes. Why? Did you have something else in mind?" Draco's eyes glazed slightly, and Harry quickly rethought his wording. "One that involves actually learning _physics_?" he amended sternly.

"Last I heard, friction _was_ a big part of physics, Potter," he goaded, and Harry rolled his eyes.

"Look, if grasping the concept of these assignments was as simple as taking a face to the cock, you wouldn't be failing," Harry stated bluntly. '_In fact, you'd probably be passing with flying colors._' "But seriously, friction wasn't all that hard to understand in the end, was it?"

"Umm," Draco pondered, uncertain now that Harry wasn't responding so flamboyantly to his jibes. Eventually, he rolled his eyes. "I…suppose not?"

"Well, momentum isn't that complicated either. Here…" Harry stood up, sliding his book across the table and turning it around to face them as he came up behind Draco, pointing to the first problem. "A point fifteen kilogram baseball moving at twenty-six meters per second is slowed to a stop by a catcher over the course of two tenths of a second. What is the force exerted on the catcher?"

If possible, Draco slouched further in his chair. "Why the hell do I care? It's a _baseball_, and he catches it…big whoop."

"Well, you can calculate impulse momentum by-"

"Can't you make it more…interesting?" Draco implored, dropping his head back to stare up at Harry with pleading silver eyes—much harder to ignore than they should have been, Harry noted absently.

"Umm…define interesting?"

Draco smirked. Before he could open his mouth, Harry shook his head.

"Never mind. In that case…" He pursed his lips in thought. "How much do you weigh?"

"Uh…hundred sixty-five?"

"Okay…so that's…about eighty-three kilograms, since we're working with metric, call it eighty…" Harry snatched a sheet of paper and a pencil. "How's this… An eighty-kilogram football player rams a…erm…fifty kilogram cheerleader…against a wall for thirteen seconds, over the course of which his momentum decreases from two hundred and sixty kilograms times meters per second squared…to zero. How much force has he applied to the cheerleader?"

Draco considered this. Finally, he said, "How am I supposed to get anything productive done in thirteen seconds?"

Harry slumped against the back of the chair and dropped his head in his hands. "You," he muttered, "are hopeless."

"Hmph." Draco glanced back at the sheet of paper and lifted it up, inspecting the figures. After a moment, he turned an assessing glance on Harry. "How much do you weigh?"

Harry straightened back up, expression guarded. "Why?" he asked.

Draco shrugged, making a show of indifference as he re-read Harry's sample problem. "Nothing in particular…" he said, not looking up. "Only…maybe I'd rather ram you against a wall for thirteen seconds."

Harry opened his mouth, flushed, shut it, and frowned. "One hundred and thirty-two pounds," he clipped out, "…about."

Draco turned, startled. "Really?" His eyes ran the length of Harry's frame, lingering occasionally on places that made Harry's cheeks heat embarrassingly. When he reached Harry's face, he grinned. "I could bench press you," he said matter-of-factly. "Almost twice over, in fact." He looked back to the paper. "How much is one-twenty in kilos?"

"That," said Harry, "you'll just have to figure out for yourself."

"But-" Draco objected.

"One pound is approximately half a kilogram. You're a big boy; I'm sure you can figure it out," said Harry, and with that, he turned, walking off towards the bookshelves.

"Hey, wait! Where are you going?"

Looking back over his shoulder, Harry raised an eyebrow. "We're in a library. Where do you think I'm going? I need some new reading material." He continued off into the shelves. "Work on your homework," he called. "If you need me, I'll be in the science fiction section…"

As he disappeared among the columns of books, Harry took the time to consider the oddity of his situation. He had chosen the library specifically for a peaceful, _populated_ place to study—someplace quiet, but busy enough to discourage, well, unprofessional self-distraction. As it turned out, it seemed the Merlin High Library was abandoned as school on a Sunday, and though he was sure the librarian had to be lurking somewhere, or the place wouldn't be open, he hadn't seen a face but Draco's since he'd walked in. Deciding not to worry about it, he selected a promising cover from the shelf and opened it at random.

It wasn't terrific—not terrible, mind, but nothing to write home about. He was about to put it up when a rumbling voice growled, "I need you," hot against the shell of his ear, and he jumped, trying to spin simultaneously and nearly tripping over himself in the process. The end result was Draco with an arm on either side of him, trapping him to the bookshelf and grinning like a cat with the canary in its teeth. Harry swallowed.

"Uh…you…you what?"

"You said," Draco reiterated patiently, "that if I needed you, you would be in the science fiction section. I'm having trouble with problem number three."

"O-oh…right," said Harry breathlessly. "Well, okay, umm…" Draco had yet to let him up, and he frowned slightly. "I…I can't exactly help if you don't-"

"Do you have a boyfriend?" Draco asked.

Harry blushed. Well _that _was an abrupt change of subject. "Er, no," he said.

"Girlfriend?" Draco prompted.

Harry sighed. "No," he repeated, this time more firmly. "I'm not in a relationship of any sort at this time. Happy? Now would you please-"

"Where did you learn to give head?"

Harry's cheeks lit up like roman candles. "That," he retorted, abashed, "is really absolutely none of your-"

"I'm making it my business."

"You can't just-"

"You must have learned somewhere," Draco pressed, and Harry's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"This," he hissed, "is sexual harassment."

Draco burst out laughing. "Oh, that's rich, Potter," he said. "And what was yesterday, hm? Friendly peer to peer bonding?"

"A bet and handjob, Malfoy," Harry snapped, glaring heatedly. "Now back off before I-"

"Before you _what_, Potter?" Draco purred, and Harry went rigid. "Scream for the librarian?" Harry bit his lip, fighting a shiver as hot breath trickled down the side of his neck. "I've got you by over thirty pounds and almost four inches. You're not going anywhere until I say so…"

"Like hell," Harry panted, but it wasn't much of a threat because Draco's hand was pinning his hip, making heat pool in his gut and causing a good number of other reactions he'd rather not think about.

"I'll tell you what yesterday was," Draco continued unabashed. "It was a bet, a handjob, a blowjob, and one hell of a fucking great orgasm."

Harry swallowed. "I'm…flattered?"

"See a movie with me Friday."

"I-" Harry cut off, utterly thrown. "Wait…_what_?"

"You heard me."

Harry stared, too startled to express anything else as he searched Draco's expression for anything but seriousness. He found nothing. "You…you're asking me _out?_" he asked, beyond incredulous.

Draco's brow furrowed. "Well, when you put it that way, it sounds totally queer…"

The word '_duh_' lingered on the tip of Harry's tongue for several long seconds, viciously tempting, but in the end, he let it go. Instead, he said, "I don't date guys."

"Mm, but you suck them off?"

"Well, when you put it that way," Harry muttered sarcastically, "it sounds _queer_." When Draco's eyes narrowed, he sighed. "Speaking of queer…I thought you were straight?"

"I am."

"Uh-_huh_…" Harry eyed him over the rim of his glasses, squinting slightly and pursing his lips. "You're straight, I have twenty-twenty vision, the world is flat, and the moon is made of green cheese." He blinked several times and frowned, pulling off his glasses and rubbing them on his shirt before returning them to their rightful place on his nose. "Back up a bit, will you? You're fogging the lenses."

"You never answered my question."

"Well, I can't very well help you without at least looking at the book-"

"Not _that_ question," Draco snapped impatiently, and Harry tilted his head.

"Oh?" he queried. "I suppose I just thought that since that _was_ the reason you came over here in the first place…unless it wasn't?"

Draco scowled. "You have a one-track mind."

"So do you," Harry countered.

Draco pursed his lips, looking thoughtful. Finally, he said, "If I ace Thursday's physics test…will you go?"

"Ace it?" Harry scoffed. "At this rate, it'll be a miracle if you _pass_ it."

"Well, if _that's_ true, then you don't have anything to worry about, do you?" Draco retorted, and Harry frowned.

"Ace?" he repeated warily. "As in…an 'A'?"

Draco debated. "Umm…ace, as in….a 'C' or higher?" he offered.

Harry rolled his eyes, fighting an unbidden smile. "No one will ever accuse you of not trying," he observed.

"No one has ever given me this much trouble before," Draco admitted and again, Harry snorted.

"Why am I not surprised?"

Draco grinned, wicked. "Because I'm blonde, loaded, and drive a Porsche?"

"It was a rhetorical question," said Harry.

"Mine wasn't."

"I told you," Harry repeated, "I don't date guys…"

"It's not a date," countered Draco. "It's…a planned outing…where we both happen to show up at the same theatre and mutually celebrate the fantastic effect of your rigorous tutoring on my academics. How's that?"

"I didn't know you had it in you," grumbled Harry. Eventually, he sighed, eyeing Draco's looming figure doubtfully. "A 'C' or higher?" Draco nodded. "A movie Friday?" Another nod. "And it won't be some sappy, second rate chick flick thing with-"

"_Potter_-"

"Fine," said Harry. "If you let me up, and we go over there and work on your homework, and by some miracle you get a 'C' or higher on the test Thursday…I'll happen to show up at the same theatre as you, Friday night. We can work out the details if and when it happens, okay?"

Draco smirked, victorious, and backed off, holding out his hand. "Shake on it, Potter," he said.

Reluctantly, Harry accepted the hand, and less than a second later emitted a startled yelp as it yanked him forward, bringing him chest to chest with the other and knocking him momentarily breathless.

"For the record," said Draco, "I was ramming you against the wall with a force of twenty Newton…and our masses were irrelevant since the formula required only the change in momentum and time, and you'd already given that."

'_Fuck_.'

As Draco released him and walked back towards the table, Harry suppressed a shiver that had nothing to do with cold, and put up his book. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a little voice whispered that he had a date—no, a planned outing that in no way signified a romantic relationship—with Merlin High's star quarterback Friday night, but he quickly silenced it.

No need to get his hopes up.

* * *

_A/N:_ Okay, just to be clear: the updates will probably never be this fast again, but...you guys were so nice, and I got so many reviews so fast, I got really inspired and...I just kept writing. So forgive me if this seems a little rushed, and sorry if I didn't work out all the possible errors or something...I hope it doesn't show too bad. Basically, just...thanks so much to everyone who gave me feedback, you guys kick so much ass. And this is the result of me going on a writing spree. :D


	3. Chapter 3: Variables

**Chapter Three| **Variables

On Wednesday, Draco had a question.

"Hey, Blaise?" The clang and clatter of lifting weights rang in the background, but Draco deciphered a grunt of acknowledgement from amidst the clamor, originating from somewhere to his left.

"Yeah?" said Blaise, sounding slightly out of breath.

Draco pondered a moment before voicing his question, trying to choose his words carefully. "What would you say…defines gayness?"

"Uh…what?"

Obviously, it wasn't what Blaise had been expecting.

"I mean, I'm not gay," Draco quickly clarified. "It's just…you know…I was wondering. Like…how would you really know?"

He was on his back benching, but he'd lost track of his count a while ago. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Blaise frown, the other boy sitting up and wiping his brow with a nearby towel.

"Um…I don't know, man," he said uncertainly. "I guess you just…know, right? I mean…if guys turn you on…"

"Guys don't turn me on," Draco snapped.

"I didn't mean-" Blaise flushed, but it might have just been the exercise. "I was just… You asked," he mumbled, sounding put out.

"Oh. Right. Sorry." Draco frowned. "Well, what if…like…just say…a guy sucked you off…"

Blaise grimaced. "That's kind of disgusting."

"Um, right, yeah," said Draco. "But…but I mean a mouth's a mouth, right?" he pressed anxiously. "I mean, it's just like a girl if…well, if you didn't know…there's really no… It shouldn't make a difference. Don't you think?"

Blaise looked doubtful. "Draco, umm, are you feelin' alright?"

Draco blushed, but he hoped it looked like it came from the exercise. "Er, yeah," he said. "I think so. Why?"

"You…I don't know. You just seem…really worked up about this. Did, um," Blaise hesitated, "did a guy-"

"No," Draco lied.

For awhile, Blaise said nothing, and Draco drifted off into his own train of thought. Then, Blaise spoke up, and Draco glanced down from the ceiling to find his teammate looming over him with an odd expression.

"Um…did you say something?" he asked.

"Yeah," said Blaise. "I asked why you were only pushing one-thirty. You usually do almost twice that."

"Oh," said Draco. "Yeah. I um…I guess I was just…seeing what it felt like." Thankfully, Blaise didn't press the issue. Mentally he noted that Harry was in fact very light.

* * *

On Thursday, Draco had a test.

"This is a comprehensive review of everything we've been over this quarter. Do your best. You may begin as soon as you receive your paper."

Draco wasn't paying attention. He couldn't breathe. Before him, the words and numbers on his paper blurred together into one dizzying black mass, threatening to consume him, and he wanted nothing more than to get up and run.

What had ever made him think he could do this?

He swallowed, fingers trembling as he reached for his pencil, almost dropping it twice, and he swore beneath his breath. Shutting his eyes, he forced himself to try and relax. Breathe slowly, he thought.

Why did this always happen to him?

He knew the stuff—he knew he did. He'd learned it, and it had made sense, and he had figured it all out, and then—then the test hit his desk and his mind died. He knew nothing. He was stupid again and everything the teacher wrote was meaningless gibberish scattered across pounded white tree pulp.

It wasn't fair.

Unable to face his paper, he lifted his head, eyes wandering the room in search of nothing in particular. All around him, his classmates mocked him; twenty-some-odd bodies hunched over their desks scribbling diligently. They knew this. They understood. They thought this was easy.

He hated them.

Then, his eyes landed on Harry.

'…_if guys turn you on_…'

Hell.

Draco dropped his head in his hands, pushing his hair back from his forehead and squeezing his eyes shut. Somewhere, deep, deep down in the hottest fiery chasms of hell, Satan was having a really good laugh right about now. He sighed. And then—much to his abject shame and humiliation—he looked back at Harry.

He didn't hunch like the rest of them, Draco noticed. And his pencil didn't stutter and jerk nervously across his paper, either—no. It scrolled: confident and self-assured, like its owner. Here, now, in this classroom, with his numbers, Harry was in his element.

Draco rolled his pencil between his fingers idly, openly staring and _willing_ the boy to look up. '_Look at __**me**_,' he thought fiercely, as if he believed that by concentrating hard enough, he could somehow bend Harry to his bidding. '_Put your pencil down and look at me—see what a fucking mess you've made._'

But he didn't look up.

Then, apparently, he came across a more challenging problem, and Draco watched with rapt fascination as a full pink lip disappeared between clean white teeth, Harry's brow furrowing in thought.

Where had he seen that look before?

Harry shifted in his seat, still worrying his lip. When he glanced to the clock, Draco's stomach clenched hotly, and he swallowed a groan, shutting his eyes as he suddenly remembered with vivid clarity _exactly_ where he'd seen that look before.

When he opened them again, Harry was watching him.

Right then, Draco almost snapped his head down—guilty and caught in the act—but at the last minute, he forced himself to hold the gaze. Harry raised an eyebrow, and then—damn him—the kid _smirked_ at him. At him! Draco Malfoy, of all people! It made him want to hit him, or kiss him or-

No, wait, Draco thought, quickly backtracking, it definitely did _not_ make him want to kiss him. At all.

As Draco pondered this egregiously erroneous notion, Harry slid down in his chair, hand slipping down into his backpack in such a subtle move, he likely wouldn't have noticed had he not been staring the whole time. A moment later, Draco almost jumped as his phone vibrated in his pocket, and his cheeks burned hotly as he prayed the teacher hadn't heard. He thought he'd turned it _off_?

Discreetly as he could manage, Draco, too, leaned back in his chair, working hard to look unsuspicious as he carefully slid out his phone, keeping it under his desk, and flipped it open. There, on the screen in glowing letters, was a single message: "Good luck," it read.

Cursing the giddy flutter in his stomach, Draco promptly snapped the thing shut and stuffed it back in his pocket.

How the hell had Harry gotten his phone number?

* * *

On Friday, well…

Draco stared at it. Just a bleached dead tree, he told himself. Just a bleached dead tree—with some very crucial numbers scribbled in red ink on the other side.

He swallowed.

What if he'd failed?

The teacher was going around from desk to desk, handing back tests and putting them face down before their owners. Draco always hated it when they did it that way. Why torture kids like that? They were going to get whatever they got no matter when they found out. Why not just let them see it from the get go? What could possibly be the point of dragging it out, making them wait and stare until they finally couldn't wait anymore and just had to _see_. Draco reached for the corner of his paper.

What if he'd passed? What did that mean?

His fingers caught the edge and he shut his eyes, taking a breath. It meant Harry had finally done what no teacher had ever really managed to do before—teach him something.

One, two, three…

Draco squinted at the red lettering, dreading what he might see. When he finally opened his eyes wide enough to read it, his stomach fell out from under him, his head swam, and for two whole seconds he forgot to breathe. Then, he was grinning from ear to ear, dropping his head back against the back of his chair, and covering his mouth so as not to draw the attention of the entire class as he laughed, body shaking, overcome with relief.

Yes, he had passed—but it was more than that.

He, Draco Malfoy, had succeeded at school. Sure, he'd passed tests before. Obviously, he never would have made it to his senior year—without ever being held back, mind—if he hadn't passed tests on occasion. But again, it was more than that. This time, he hadn't passed because his parents could pay to provide new computers for the math lab, or because he'd made that touch down just in time and Snape figured one or two points from a D was really close enough in the long run, or because his teacher was pretty and young and Draco was born with natural good looks and charisma. No. This time, he'd earned it—the _right_ way.

It felt really good.

Without even thinking about it, he looked up, seeking out Harry almost instinctively, and a moment later he found him. There, on the other side of the room, in his desk—and _yawning_. He hadn't worried about his score for a second.

Somehow, though, Draco couldn't hate him for it—wasn't even jealous, in fact. Harry looked good—with one hand fisted and stretched over his head, the other covering his mouth as he leaned back, utterly oblivious of the way this made his shirt ride up on his lean, flat stomach, teasing any who looked with a barely perceptible sliver of creamy pale skin. How could Draco hate anyone who gave a show like that?

The bell rang.

Smirking only to himself, Draco grabbed his test and stood. The teacher was saying something about a lab on Monday and wishing everyone a good weekend as they piled out the door, minds closed to everything but thoughts of the weekend. Harry was crouched beside his desk when Draco got there, rapidly stuffing papers away in a mad scramble, and Draco watched, bemused.

"So," he asked after a moment, trying to sound as casual as possible, "how'd you do?"

"Ninety-eight," said Harry, snatching something from his desk and shoving it behind a folder in his backpack without so much as a sideways glance in Draco's direction. "I forgot to convert from centimeters to meters on problem seven and he counted off." Finishing with his backpack, Harry zipped it quickly and stood. Finally, he met Draco's gaze. "You?" he asked.

Draco dropped his test on the desk, and Harry's eyes flickered to the circled number in red. On seeing it, he smiled. Draco could get used to that smile.

"So," Harry said, not missing a beat, "what movie did you have in mind?"

* * *

_A/N:_ I know this chapter is short, sorry guys, but I still think it's okay. Thanks again so, so, so much for your continued support. Really, you're all amazing, even if you're just favoriting or alerting (but I especially, especially appreciate those who take the time to review, and I try hard to reply to everyone who logs in; it's the least I can do, I think). The next chapter will start to introduce some complications, and some plot for the story, but don't worry, the main plot is still getting Harry and Draco to see the light and fall madly in love with each other already - hah. =D I hoped you liked it, even in its brevity, and I'm really, really, really busy with school right now, but I'm going to try to keep working on this when I can. (I have part of the next chapter done, but I don't know... I might not actually finish it up until sometime this weekend, but hopefully soon. We'll see.)


	4. Chapter 4: Interference

**Chapter Four|** Interference

Red, blue, green, white—pink?—Harry frowned as he thumbed through his wardrobe, pausing at a faded, Easter-pink button-up he never before knew he owned. Mother must have snuck it in on him while he wasn't looking. Sighing, he pushed past it. Seriously, what the hell did one wear to a not-a-date movie date with a football player on Friday night? Green matched his eyes, but his glasses made it nearly impossible to tell. Blue was too dark. Pink was absolutely out of the question. Frustrated, he rubbed the back of his neck and shut his eyes.

If it wasn't even a date, did it even make sense to worry?

"Blee-beep!" his PDA called to him from his pocket, and Harry fished it out, pushing aside his fashion woes for the time being in favor of his mysterious caller. As soon as he glanced to the screen, though, he groaned.

"White, green, and black," it read, and Harry instantly scanned his room.

"Ron," he scolded, "where are you? Can't you ever just knock like a normal person?"

"Aww," the floating voice of his best friend originated from somewhere by his window, and Harry turned to face it, searching for any sign of movement to further betray his location. He found none. "But, Harry," Ron whined, somewhere near his bed now, still nothing more than a bodiless voice, "that takes all the fun out of it. Besides," A cold chill swept through Harry, something like stepping into an unexpected winter fog, and he suppressed a shiver, shutting his eyes as, moments, later, a very tangible, very _real_ Ronald Weasley solidified behind him, grinning ridiculously as he propped his chin on Harry's shoulder and said seriously, "I'm _not_ a normal person."

"Fancy that," murmured Harry, eyes still shut. "I never would have guessed."

"Hm." Ron's hum sent warm air whispering across his goosebumped flesh. "You smell good," Ron informed him, "like…soap and hot water. Can I take this showered state and frantic wardrobe search to mean that Harry Potter _finally_ got himself a date?"

Though sorely tempted to retort, Harry forced himself to ignore the question. "Hot water has a smell?" he asked instead. Anything to get Ron off the subject of dates—and hopefully off his neck, too, because tonight he had a deal to settle with Draco, and as non-romantic, non-date-like an occasion as it was, it still wouldn't do to be dreaming up lascivious, never-will-happen-in-a-million-years fantasies about magician superheroes the whole time.

"Yes," said Ron, matter-of-factly, "it usually smells like soap."

Harry resisted the urge to groan. "Ron, really, what are you doing here?"

"Me? Why, I thought that was obvious." Finally, _finally_, Ron got off his neck, and Harry thought he might collapse from relief. "Your fashion sense is absolutely atrocious," said Ron, sauntering to Harry's closet and surveying the selection with the air of a practiced merchant on the lookout for the only the best of the best, "So, naturally, being the well-renowned good-deed-doer that I am…I decided to lend you my keen eye for such things. Unless of course," Ron paused with his hands on a pristine, snow-white turtleneck, "you _don't_ want to lose your virginity tonight?"

Harry flopped back onto his bed with all the abounding grace of a rucksack tossed on a baggage lane and glared up at the ceiling, shamelessly blaming it for his every teenage quandary. "You and I," he grumbled, "both know I'm not a virgin."

Still in his closet, Ron shrugged. "S'pose it depends on your definition," he admitted, "but…unless you've been engaging in shocking acts I have yet to hear about…" Suddenly, Harry became vividly aware of a strong sense of irking vulnerability associated with lying flat on your back while someone loomed anywhere between three and five feet above you—in mid-air. Then, Ron drifted down to sit, cross-legged, on the bed beside him, and Harry felt better. "You're still a virgin by my definition."

"Oh?" said Harry, knowing he should just drop the subject and wishing he could, "And why is that?"

"Because," Ron said quietly, leaning over him and hovering so close Harry felt his breath on his face and the warmth of his body heat and, "you've never been fucked, have you, Harry?"

Somehow, Harry thought answering cognitively might have been easier if it weren't for the fact that he was prone on his bed, pinned under and staring helplessly up at the first person he'd ever kissed, the only person he'd ever fallen in love with, and the one person in the world he knew for sure he could never _ever_ have because Ron was in love with Hermione, and Hermione was in love with Ron, and Ron was straight—deep down—and Harry knew that, and he respected that, but it really did nothing to keep him from dreaming and wishing he was going to the theatre with Ron tonight instead of Draco and that Hermione would up and disappear from the world as they knew it and they could both just live happily ever after and-

"You haven't, have you?" Ron prompted worriedly, apparently misinterpreting Harry's mingled expression for something else entirely.

Drawn from his daze, Harry frowned. "Oh," he said, "no. No, I haven't."

Ron grinned. "Good," he said. And then he went apparated again, disappearing as effortlessly as the rabbit in the hat, and-

He landed with a thud on the floor beneath the bed a moment later.

Swearing, Harry rolled to the side of his bed and sat up, pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to banish a headache.

"Did you break up with Hermione again?" he asked after a moment.

Under the bed, Ron shuffled slightly, then coughed, probably stirring up dust with his movement. "Why?" he mumbled eventually, the indistinct question only further muffled by his secluded position.

'_Because you only bother with me when Hermione won't bother with you_,' Harry thought sourly. A moment later, he groaned guiltily. "Because…I…" He shook his head and sighed. "Never mind. I guess I was just wondering, is all."

A long pause followed, proceeded by, "I've never broken up with Hermione, Harry. You know that."

'_Oh. Right_.'

Harry walked to his closet. Ron never broke up with Hermione; Hermione broke up with Ron. Why the hell anyone with half a brain would ever dream of breaking up with Ron-

Okay, well, perhaps Harry could think of a few reasons. But still. He thumbed through his wardrobe, not even glancing at the contents. He wouldn't have broken up with Ron…not that they'd ever actually dated.

"Sorry," he said aloud. "I forgot."

"S'alright," said Ron. There was another quick pop, "I forgive you…" and that second part of the sentence came from directly behind him. Harry's fingers trembled as he traced over the turtle-neck Ron had picked out earlier, fighting so hard not to lean back—just a little—and succumb to the heat of Ron's body. "Don't wear that one," Ron murmured, and Harry blinked, dropping his hand.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because," warm breath teased Harry's throat as Ron stepped forward, bringing his chest up flat against Harry's back and trailing his hand from Harry's chin, along his jaw, and down to his shoulder, "it'll cover your neck."

"Oh," Harry breathed, swallowing dizzily, "okay."

For ten precious seconds, they stood like that, unmoving. Then, Ron asked, "When does your date get here?" and Harry shook himself back into reality.

"I'm…umm…it's…fuck." Harry pulled away from Ron, knowing he'd never get anywhere otherwise and rubbing his neck as he fought to clear his head. "It's not…officially…a date, really," he said finally. "It's more of a…planned outing." Ron raised an eyebrow. "I'm meeting them there. That is, we're not going together. But we'll be there together, obviously…when we get there…I mean…but…it's not like it's…well…" Harry's words trailed off and he frowned, rather unsatisfied with the way that had turned out.

Smiling in an unforgivably knowing way, Ron rolled his eyes and dragged out a pair of dark jeans from Harry's closet. "Thought you didn't date guys, Harry?" he teased, and Harry's cheeks went dark, glasses nearly falling off as he scrambled to catch the pants that came flying at him a moment later.

"I _don't_," he insisted, though he had to admit to himself it wasn't very convincing as he fumbled to resituate himself, shifting the jeans to one arm and shoving his glasses back into place with the other. "And, what makes you assume it's a guy anyway?"

Ron snorted. "Honestly, Harry, how dumb do you think I am?" Harry decided it was probably a rhetorical question. "First, you're blushing like the Virgin Mary staring down a dildo. Second, no bloke gives two-pence about what he wears on a date with a girl because it's his job to do the seducing there, not look worthy of being seduced, and third…if it were a girl, mate, you would've told me every detail by now, recounting everything from the smell of her perfume to the color of her nail polish, and the very first thing I would have heard…was a name. I have no name, no details, and not only have you avoided even admitting it's a date, but you've also carefully managed not to specify a gender one way or the other."

Point taken, Harry thought begrudgingly.

"So, that being said," Ron tossed him a shirt and jacket, and this time, Harry caught them smoothly, "who's the lucky guy?"

Harry poked at the jacket collar. "Does really it matter?"

Ron looked up. "'Course it matters."

Harry frowned. "Why? I mean…it's really nothing serious, Ron, I swear. It's just…it's practically nothing. Why do you care?"

Ron studied him. "Because I _care_, Harry," he said finally, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Because I care about you and what happens to you and…I'd never forgive myself if…" He trailed off, pursing his lips with a dissatisfied expression, then ultimately finished with, "I just don't want you to get hurt, okay?"

Harry observed the display curiously. "Always the hero," he murmured finally.

"Harry-" Ron objected, but Harry cut him off.

"Look, I promise not to do anything stupid. Okay, Ron? I hardly foresee any danger, but if things head seriously downhill, I'll pull out. I'm taking my own car," His mom's car, technically, but that was beside the point, "and I'm bringing my cell. It'll be a populated theatre in a lighted mall and…I know how to take care of myself. If it makes you feel better, I'll leave my cell on, and promise to call you if anything goes wrong, alright?"

Ron blushed. It was kind of cute, actually. "You promise?"

"Yeah," said Harry, "I promise."

"Um…okay. Well…I guess I should let you go then…but Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"You…you know I'm not jealous, right?"

Jealous? What reason could Ron possibly have to be jealous? And yet, Harry couldn't imagine why he'd even mention it unless… "Yeah. Right," he said, suddenly not so sure.

"Good," said Ron. "Oh, and one more thing…"

"Yeah?"

"You need to change out of those clothes anyway, right?"

"Er…" Something told him he wasn't going to like where this was going. "I…guess…so…but, Ron, what-" But Ron was already standing before him, lifting a hand to touch his forehead, and before he could object, a chilly, tingling feeling swept Harry's body, and he shut his eyes instinctively. When he opened them, he shivered first, bringing his hands to his bare-

Shit.

Everything but his boxers were gone.

"Ron-" he started, heat immediately flooding his face, but by the time he got that far, Ron was snickering, wagging his eyebrows and grinning like a madman.

"Have fun, Harry," he said, and with that and a wink, he was gone.

Left alone in his room, Harry scowled, wondering where the heck Ron had _sent_ his clothes anyway and muttering, "Show-off," to no one in particular before proceeding to dress in the outfit Ron had laid out.

Twenty minutes later found him downstairs and dressed with wallet in hand, snatching the car keys from a hook beside the door on his way out. His mother's call of "Harry, is that you?" caught him halfway into closing it behind him, and he cursed, seconds from freedom. Sighing, he stepped back into the house.

"Yeah, mom," he said. "I was heading to the mall." He fingered the keys in his palm, listening to them clink. "Can I borrow the car?"

"Harry, why…what are you doing going to the mall at this hour?" his mother asked, puzzled, walking out of the kitchen with her hands wrapped in a dishtowel. "Are Hermione and Ron going too? And-" She stopped—so abruptly, in fact, that Harry took an uncertain step forward, concerned. Then, she hastily tossed the dishtowel back in the kitchen. "Harry, honey, don't you move a muscle…I'll be right back." And with that, she disappeared, scurrying off down the hall and leaving Harry clueless at the front door.

After a few moments of listening to his mother scramble, mumbling and muttering as drawers opened and closed, she finally reemerged, and Harry got a sinking feeling in his stomach as she approached, eyeing her right hand warily. Even from a distance it looked like…

And as she drew closer it looked more and more like…

And when she finally arrived his face became several shades paler because it now seemed undeniable that his mother was actually bringing him-

"_Condoms_?" Harry squeaked, beyond mortified. "Mom…this isn't…I'm not…I wasn't even…"

"Just in case, honey," she soothed. "Better safe than sorry."

"But," Harry stuttered, "you don't understand…it's…I…" His cheeks and neck burned as his mother stubbornly pressed the gold plastic wrappers into his palm, and he gave her a desperate, forlorn look. "Do I really need _four_?"

His mother shrugged. "If you're anything like your father…"

Harry went a sort of sickly pale, white-green color, and nearly tripped over his own feet in an attempt to half-run backwards out the front door. His mother waved cheerily as he fled to the car, and he grimaced, still trying to clear the unwanted images from his head as he stuffed the key in the ignition and pulled on his seat belt. A cynical part of him wondered if she'd said that _just_ to ruin his sex drive, and therefore remove the need for those "just in case" condoms. Somehow, he doubted it. Even _his_ parents weren't that naïve.

He spent the five-minute drive to the mall flipping through radio stations and trying hard not to think about his mother, or the condoms, or Ron, or what his breath smelled like, or what Draco would look like when he got there. All in all, he thought he did a pretty crappy job. He needn't have worried, though. When he pulled into a parking spot outside the mall and stepped out, it took no effort to locate Draco, propped up against a pillar by the front entrance, hands in his pockets and blonde head tilted back in lazy repose, and with that one look, Harry forgot about just about everything—except, unfortunately, the condoms.

In fact, something about looking at Draco made it frustratingly difficult to think about anything _but_ those annoying, square pieces of gold-wrapped plastic now shoved deeply into the far reaches of his back pocket, and as Harry approached his unofficial, movie-going companion, he wondered if his mother might have known more about teenage male hormones than he'd given her credit for.

* * *

_A/N:_ Yes, Ron has magic. He is the ONLY one who has magic (except for the evil spirits and things which the trio fights, but that will come later). In this story he uses them sort of like super powers (because I figure, if magic was a complete rarity and not standardized like it was in the books, then it would be almost like a super power). I also wanted Ron to finally get the "hero" role (although we really won't see much of it, it's basically just a plot so that Harry has a secret ((knowing about Ron's powers)) that he can't tell Draco... but that will come into play later as well). Finally, yes, his magic is a little exaggerated.. (it will go beyond what could be done in the books, basically, unless you were a _very_ powerful wizard), but it's sort of a counter-balance to the fact that no one else has any powers. Anyway, again, it's not a huge part of the story.

Yes, Harry's parents are both alive. Neither of them are major characters, you won't see me bring them in too often, but to me, coming out to and/or dealing with one's parents in general when it comes to teens and there relationships is a very cruical part of their lives. I suppose I could have made him adopted, but I liked it better to just let him have his folks in this one.

No, the Harry/Ron dynamic will NOT be the focus of this story! It's another distraction technique/barrier/road-block, whatever you like to call it. Harry and Draco need a few (other than "not liking each other" because that one gets lame fast) in order for me to drag this story out for the length that I want to.

Da-errr..."outing" next chapter; I promise. =D


	5. Chapter 5: Contact Force

**Chapter Five| **Contact Force

Very _discreetly_, Draco checked his watch for the third time in the past minute. Discreetly because he was not anxious and didn't want anyone happening by to think he was, and for the third time in the past minute because it was two minutes and thirty seven seconds past seven, making Harry officially two minutes and thirty seven seconds _late_. Forty-eight seconds, now. Not that he cared, of course, or that he was really paying all that much attention, but one would think he'd at least have the decency to call, or text, or-

"You look nice, this evening," Harry commented, and Draco jumped, unsuccessfully trying to cover it with a slight swagger at the end and frowning at Harry's amused expression.

"You're late," Draco accused.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "By," He checked his watch, "twenty-three seconds?" he asked. Draco opened his mouth, fully prepared to correct him, then reconsidered and shut it again, deciding it might give the wrong impression. "Besides," said Harry, "who's to say you're not just early?" His smirk was unforgivable. "Eager for something?"

"Watch it, Potter," Draco growled, but it held little menace. He was finding it hard to concentrate. Harry looked—well—he looked good. Really, really good, and it was distracting. After several seconds of unsuccessfully trying to glare at _and_ mentally undress him simultaneously, Draco begrudgingly gave up on glaring.

A lightweight, forest green jacket covered most of Harry's upper body, baring nothing but a small triangle of tempting cream right at the collar, and a sudden urge to know exactly what that triangle _tasted_ like spurred Draco into moving his gaze onward. Dark, almost black jeans hung loosely about lean legs and yet somehow managed to cling in all the right places, making Draco wonder if they defied the laws of physics. When he caught himself wondering if they would fall off easily when unbuttoned, or hug the skin, he opted to look up instead. For once his hair looked, well, _almost_ tame—at least he appeared to have made an effort to tame it, anyway—and Draco wondered what it would feel like, to slide his hands back over it, catch the loose ends in his fingertips and drag Harry close until he could taste his breath on his lips and-

"Who dresses you?" he asked sharply, desperate to distract himself.

Harry chuckled, green eyes dancing with mischief as he shook his head, glasses glinting under the artificial lights. "A fashion-conscious magician that haunts my bedroom," he said, sounding oddly serious. "Do you approve of his style?"

Draco hoped the dim light hid his blush as his eyes were drawn, once more, to that little 'v' of bare skin at Harry's throat, and he shifted awkwardly. "Uh…yeah…it's," he swallowed. "You're…good." '_Oh, good? Very eloquent, Malfoy. Great job_.'

At least Harry had a nice smile. "Thanks," he said. "Shall we?" he asked, pointing towards the mall entrance, and Draco blinked.

Ah. Right. The movie.

"Yeah, sure. Um…good idea."

"I thought so," said Harry, still grinning as he headed towards the door, and Draco watched him go. After noting—to himself alone—that Harry had a very, very nice arse, he followed suit.

They walked side by side through the mall, about a foot apart, with hands in their pockets and heads turned just about everywhere—except towards each other. Draco noted the opening of a new dance studio across the way from a men's shoe store that was apparently closing down and wondered what it would be like to take a dance class. Then he wondered if Harry could dance, or if he even liked to dance, and tried—rather unsuccessfully—to imagine what kind of music he might like. He was still pondering that when they arrived at the theatre. There, Harry's voice drew him from his reverie.

"Hey, Draco?" Harry called, waving a hand in front of his face and prompting him to look up. "You never told me what movie we came to see," he said, one elbow propped on the ticket counter and wallet in hand as he waited for Draco's reply. As the facts sank in, Draco frowned.

"Oh, right, umm…" He pushed forward to come beside Harry, fishing in his own pockets as he scanned the running times of current shows. "How about, umm…" _Mamma Mia_—chick flick; _How to Train Your Dragon_—family movie; _Twili_—no, "…uhh…that, 'Bourne' thing…the fourth one down…'The Bourne Ultimatum'?"

"That's fine with…wait…you haven't _decided_ yet?"

Draco shrugged, finally locating his wallet and pulling out sufficient fees for two tickets. "I guess I never really thought about it," he admitted.

"You invited me…three days ago…and you never even _thought_ about what you wanted to see?" Harry repeated, incredulous.

"Uh…yeah?" Was it really that hard to believe?

"But," Harry sputtered, "that doesn't even…you can't just…how on _Earth_…"

"Look," said Draco, facing Harry with as frank a stare as he could manage without laughing outright at the boy's utterly befuddled expression, "I wasn't really thinking much about the movie when I asked you, I'm not really thinking much about the movie now, and I pretty much never planned on thinking much about the movie at all…ever…so it didn't seem all that important. Besides…it's not like we're going to actually _watch_ it…"

Draco turned to the ticket lady, about to pay when Harry caught his hand with a hasty, "Wait," and Draco paused, suddenly entranced by the long, smooth fingers placed so carelessly over his own. "I was…I was going to pay for some of that," Harry said, and Draco gave him an odd look.

"I asked you here," he said.

"Yeah, but," Harry withdrew his hand, blushing faintly, "I accepted under the pretense that I would be paying for at least my half. I mean we specifically agreed it wasn't…wasn't going to be…"

_A date_.

The words lingered, unspoken, on his tongue, and Draco snorted, shrugging it off and turning back to the ticket counter. "Doesn't matter," he said. "I made the offer, so I take the check."

Harry still looked on the verge of objecting, but in the end he didn't, so Draco paid for them both and took their tickets. When he passed Harry his ticket, his fingers lingered just a moment longer than they needed to, but if Harry noticed, he didn't object to that either, and they both walked into the theatre about a foot apart, with their hands in their pockets, and smiling. Draco decided to ignore the look given to them by the ticket lady as they passed.

"So," said Harry, sparing a brief, wistful glance towards the concession stands as they bypassed them, "if you not for the movie, why the theatre?"

Draco eyed him critically as they ascended a short flight of steps. Wasn't Harry supposed to be at least somewhat intelligent? Glowing billboards identifying the current showing in each room provided the only light for the hallway that followed, making for a rather dim passage, but, apparently, not dim enough to hide his expression, because Harry rolled his eyes a moment later.

"That's not…oh, you're hopeless," Harry grumbled. "I meant…if you really didn't plan on paying _any_ attention, why not pick someplace…I don't know…less…public?"

Draco snorted. "Would you have ever said yes if I'd asked you to climb in the back of my car armed with lube and a condom?"

Harry almost tripped, and Draco caught his shoulder, steadying him before he let go.

"Exactly," he said.

"B-but-"

"Here we are." Draco snatched Harry's arm again, this time earning himself an abrupt yelp as he yanked the smaller figure, stumbling, into their designated theatre.

Unfortunately, it was nearly twice as dark inside as it was in the hall, and, caught unawares, Draco himself nearly tripped on entering. That, of course, led Harry, already off-balance, to run flat into him, and moments later they both went sprawling. The end result was a confusing tumble and tangle of limbs ending in an awkward collision with a chair in the first row.

Draco grunted painfully. "Ouch," was the grand sum of his woes.

Under him, Harry gave a curt snort, wriggling discontentedly and causing some unidentified bony part of his body to dig into Draco's thigh. "Very smooth," he snarked sarcastically, breathless and sounding more than a tad on the agitated side. "Was that all part of the plan? Or did it just sort of happen in a spur of the moment kind of thing?"

Draco groaned, partially because his left rib hurt like hell and partially because Harry was still squirming against him, and breathing down his neck, and fuck—was that Harry's _knee_ between his legs?

"I…accident," he muttered rather inarticulately, and Harry huffed in disbelief.

"Oh?" he countered harshly. "And I'm sure the exact same thing would have happened if we'd just walked into the theatre like normal people? Slowly and calmly and-" Harry cut off abruptly, and Draco felt him stiffen. Apparently, the effects of their close proximity on Draco's anatomy had finally caught his notice. "Well," he observed a moment later, suddenly far too smug for Draco's tastes, "at least we know some parts of you made it through unscathed."

Draco growled, opening his mouth with every intent of making some snappy retort, when the knee between his legs shifted—just enough to make it impossible to ignore—and any possible comeback melted into the dark abyss. The resulting, rather undignified jumble of, "_OhfuckHarryshutup_," earned him an amused snort from his companion, much to his chagrin.

"Yes, well, as lovely as it is that you appreciate my oozing sexual appeal and all that-"

"Harry-" Draco hissed warningly.

"-you are kind of crushing me at the moment. So if you don't mind, I'd really appreciate it if you'd back…up…" Harry emphasized the words with several encouraging nudges in the right direction, and, after gritting his teeth at the unwanted constraints movement put on various regions of his body, Draco complied with the request.

Taking a step back, he winced as he shifted awkwardly, trying to achieve a temporarily acceptable arrangement until his dilemma faded. At least a glance in the right direction confirmed that Harry had not undergone the ordeal totally unaffected either, and it soothed his nerves to an extent.

"You know," Harry commented, eyeing Draco with an odd air of reevaluation, "I think that's the first time you've called me by my first name." The comment caught Draco off guard, and he blinked, wondering if that could be true. "It's kind of nice, actually," Harry said, tugging down the front of his jacket—slightly upset by their escapade—and shoving his hands in his pockets as he pushed up off the back of the chair and started towards the door. "You should try it more often."

"Oh," said Draco, still flustered and entirely unsure of what to make of the statement as he watched Harry go. "Okay." Then, the fact of his departure sank in and a startled, "Hey, wait!" escaped Draco just in time to halt Harry at the door. "Where, um…where are you going?" he asked.

"Concessions," Harry said plainly.

"Con…oh…but, why?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Because," he said, "due to your impeccable planning, we still have fifteen minutes before the movie starts, and frankly…I'm starving. Besides, no one in their right mind goes to a theatre without purchasing at least one extra-grande-sized bucket of buttered popcorn."

"But…" Draco frowned. "Alright," he conceded, "but here…" After a moment of scrounging in his pocket, he came up with what he wanted produced a crinkled bill, holding it out to Harry. "Take this." Before Harry could object, he added, "And if it makes you feel better, get me something too."

Harry's fingers closed reluctantly over the bill as Draco thrust it in his palm, and he eyed it distrustfully, as if it might leap up and attack him at any moment. Finally, he looked back up to Draco. "You sure?" he asked, and Draco rolled his eyes.

"Look, if I can chock up fifty for a bet I didn't even shake on, I think I can handle twenty for some popcorn and soda pop, okay?" If nothing else, watching Harry's eyes widen fetchingly at the reminder of that first fifty made it well worth it in Draco's opinion, and he smiled. "Just get me a diet coke, alright?"

Harry frowned. "A…_diet_-"

Draco clamped a hand over his mouth. "_Yes_, a diet coke, Potter…Harry." He felt Harry's cheeks heat under his palm, and his stomach fluttered. Immediately, he withdrew his hand, hoping the darkness hid his own blush. "Just…just get it, okay?"

Harry grinned. Damn him for that grin. "Aye, aye, cap'n," he said, and disappeared out the door.

For a time, Draco just stood there, staring—not thinking, per say, because, honestly, his notions at the moment were far too tangled to be considered rational thought—but looking and wondering.

Finally, he sighed, shifting a hand back through his hair with a puzzled frown and turning to walk back towards the aisles in search of a seat. How a bet and a blowjob had landed him in a movie theatre with Harry Potter on a Friday night was completely beyond him at this point, but one thing was for sure: he was having a hell of lot better time then he'd ever had with Pansy, or Daphne, or—hell, any girl he'd ever dated—and the worst part was, the movie hadn't even started yet.

Locating a seat, he flopped down gracelessly and instantly kicked his legs out before him, slouching back with a very emasculate pout as he let himself wonder for the first time if there was even the teensiest, tiniest little whisper of a chance that he might, possibly, be just a tiny bit—well—gay. He shuddered to think, and quickly stomped the thought flat, mentally scolding himself for letting the idea get even that far. Of course he wasn't gay. Not, he, Draco Malfoy, captain of the football team, king of Merlin High. No way. He was just-

"Miss me?"

Draco jumped, coming dangerously close to landing himself with a lap full of soda and popcorn in the process.

"Hey, now!" Harry countered, retreating in defense of-

Draco's jaw dropped.

"You plan on _eating_ all that?"

The mere fact that he had somehow managed to make it to their chairs with such a load was surprising enough. With the aforementioned "essential" extra-grande-sized buttered popcorn bag tucked under one arm, a huge diet coke in the other, and a box of nachos, two bags of M&Ms and—was that cotton candy?—miraculously woven into other various parts of his grasp, Harry looked like a walking candy stand. From the look on his face, though, Draco concluded that he did, in fact, plan on consuming it all.

"But…you're so…_small_," Draco persisted with no thought to tact as he stared incredulously at Harry's slim frame weaving its way between the chairs towards him.

"Oh?" Harry inquired, pressing his back to the chairs on the next aisle and raising his bundles of goods as he slid past Draco to the next seat. "And am I to take that as a compliment?"

Draco shrugged, making a quick sweep for the popcorn as Harry went by but missing by inches when Harry leaned just out of reach at the last second. Draco scowled. "How should I know?" he grumbled, eyes lingering longingly on the popcorn. "It's just the truth."

Harry snorted, flopping into his seat with a similar air to that of Draco minutes before and propping his legs up on the back of the chair in front of him.

"Yeah, well," he said, strategically arranging his newly-purchased horde in a scattered circle about him, "your long string of ninety-pound, lipstick-laden, short-skirted ex's might have appreciated references to their borderline-anorexia, but for a guy, 'small' isn't exactly a flattering term. Besides," He wriggled lower in his seat, plucking a single golden kernel from the bag now tucked securely in his lap and popping it neatly between his lips with far more delicacy than Draco deemed necessary for sensible popcorn consumption, "I like to think of myself as reasonably _well_ endowed, thank you very much."

It was about that time that Draco began to wonder if they were still talking about the same thing. Then, something clashed loudly on the movie screen, and he forgot to ask, too busy trying to decide how the movie could have started without his noticing—it appeared to be several minutes in already. Go figure.

On screen, Matt Damon—or "Jason Bourne" as the script called him—was busy ferrying some mousey journalist through a giant crowd in what appeared to be an airport while a very fit looking gunner—a bad guy from the looks of things—set up to take them out from an air duct.

"It's no wonder this theatre gets lousy business," Harry murmured around a mouthful of popcorn, distracting Draco from the film drama. "The acoustics on this room are awful, and their lighting fixtures need some serious work. See how the left corner of the screen flickers every now and then? Something's up with the projector."

Draco watched Harry lick butter from his fingers and frowned. "Don't people normally talk about how much the _movie_ sucks? As opposed to, you know, the…sound system…or whatever?"

Harry blinked up at him, sucking an M&M into his mouth with a quiet 'pop,' before shrugging and glancing back to the movie. The glowing screen cast a dancing contrast of light and shadow across his features as his lips worked their way blindly around the soda straw, and slurped.

"Dunno," he said eventually. "Those're just the things I notice, I guess." Several seconds later, he came to the bottom of the cup with a loud squelch and pouted. "Dang," he muttered, holding it out before him and frowning as if that might miraculously fill it back up. A moment later, he sighed, rearranging his popcorn and other goods to the next seat before standing. "I'll be right back."

When Harry went to shuffle past his chair to get out, however, Draco blocked his path. "At this rate, you'll be up and down for half the movie going to take a piss," he said. "You drank practically that whole thing by yourself."

"I did not!" said Harry.

"I barely got any!" Draco argued. Several 'shh!'s erupted from several rows down, and Harry glared narrowly.

"And whose fault is that?" he hissed, voice barely above a whisper. "If you want more, you'll just have to suck faster next time."

"I'll never get any if it's a sucking contest!" Draco hissed back, almost as quiet, and Harry's hand shot out so quick, he only just caught it in time. "Temper, temper," he scolded, grinning at Harry's scowl.

"If you wanted more, you could have just asked," Harry sulked.

"Yeah? Alright," Draco said. He tugged sharply at Harry's wrist, eliciting a startled protest as the smaller body jerked forward, and bringing them nearly forehead to forehead the next instant. This close, Harry's breath smelled of chocolate and theatre butter—an odd, strangely fascinating juxtaposition of salt and sweet that made his blood pound just a little faster in his veins. "I want more," he said, and Harry's breath quivered across his lips.

"Are we…still talking about coke?" he asked, and Draco's mouth twitched with the faintest hint of a smirk.

A scant three inches more, and Draco could have tasted those lips—the chocolate and the butter, slippery and hot and smooth against his own—but he reined the urge. "Do you want to keep talking about coke?"

"Not," Harry swallowed, and Draco watched his Adam's apple bob in his throat, "not particularly."

"Hn." Keeping Harry's wrist firmly clasped, Draco brought it to the armrest beside him, and Harry shuffled, awkwardly balanced with one knee on the chair and one foot on the floor. "Good," he murmured, "neither do I."

"Draco-"

"Why'd you do it?" he asked.

"I…" Harry's pulse stuttered against his fingertips. "It…seemed like a good idea at the time?" he offered up hopefully. Draco raised his eyebrows; Harry sighed. "Because I could," he said eventually. "Because I was pissed at the physics teacher for making me share a room with you and pissed at you for making assumptions about me and I wanted to prove a point."

"What point?" Draco flicked his thumb over the underside of Harry's wrist experimentally and smiled when it induced a shiver.

"I…I don't quite remember, actually," Harry replied, voice faintly breathy, and Draco made a mental note: Harry had sensitive wrists. "Probably something along the lines of: 'Smart kids have hormones too' or…'Geek does not equal boring and unpredictable'… It might have had more to do with the fact that I really didn't expect you to follow up on it, though, and that I wanted to see the look on your face when I offered…and…you kinda looked halfway hot that day, too…despite being bored sick and royally ticked at me and all…but-"

"Only halfway?"

"Well, I was trying pretty hard not to think of you as 'hot'," Harry defended. "You were…_are_ a football player after all, and I was already pissed at too many other things to be pissed at myself for ogling over one of the prep crowd."

Draco snorted. "And the fifty bucks?"

Harry blushed then, glancing away shamefacedly. "It wasn't an entirely insignificant sum," he admitted quietly. His face was close enough Draco could _feel_ the heat radiating from him—from his cheeks and neck—and Draco's smile was feral.

"So," he said, "would you do it again?"

Again, Harry's pulse stuttered in his grasp. "If you're asking if I would make the same decision again, if given the choice to do it over, then yes," said Harry, "I would. If you're asking if I'd consider bringing you off again in the here and now, then I'd have to say that depends more on you."

Draco's, "Hnph," was something of a mixture between a grunt and growl. "So, in other words," he said, "if I promise to be real quiet…" His spare hand teetered, indecisively, just above the waist of Harry's pants. "We can do something other than pretend to watch this sorry excuse for an action-suspense-thriller and actually make use of the poor lighting?"

"This 'other something' could get us kicked out of the theatre?" asked Harry, making it almost more a statement than a question.

"In a heartbeat," Draco agreed. "Interested?"

"Nngh," Harry shivered in the most delightful way when Draco let his fingers trace, curiously, over the semi-hard outline already present in the front of his jeans, and his distracted nod was more than enough to get the point across. "Fuck yes," he whispered, and without a moment's hesitation, Draco's hand slipped beneath jacket and shirt alike, catching Harry's pants at the waist and giving a meaningful tug forward.

"Up," he ordered. Harry needn't be told twice.

Draco decided he liked Harry in his lap—one leg splayed to either side of him and full, parted lips easily within reach of his teeth. He liked the way Harry ground against him—shameless now that they were past pretenses—and couldn't help but contrast it to all the awkward hesitance and fidgeting of past encounters with the opposite gender. By the time Harry's trapped hand wriggled free of his grasp, moving down to catch his own and guide it impatiently to the straining bulge in his pants, Draco began to seriously question his sexuality.

Letting another guy touch you was one thing, he reasoned, because hormones were hormones, regardless of whose hand was down your pants, but touching another guy and _liking_ it? That was another story altogether.

After half a second's debate, Draco swallowed thickly and shut his eyes, letting his fingers curl, almost tentatively, around the denim-encased hardness beneath his palm. When Harry hissed in appreciation, jerking into the touch, Draco relaxed slightly, reassured. It was strange, really, inducing such reactions in another male, but not altogether unpleasant, and it lent an almost heady sense of power, knowing that he had control like this, that he made the rules.

"So tell me, Potter," he asked, emboldened by Harry's reaction and adding pressure of his own accord this time, "when _was_ the last time you got off? You seem a bit…high-strung."

The "Hngph," that followed was a sort of choked snort.

"To h-hell with that," Harry snapped breathlessly. "If I'm high-strung, then you have the sexual restraint of a bucking bronco in mating season, and, as I've said, it's really-" A sharp inhale ended the sentence there as Draco ran his thumb along the stiff ridge in his pants, and moments later, Harry arched his hips, hissing something vaguely akin to, "_Ahfuckyesthere_…" when the touch dipped a fraction lower. Draco observed the effects with rapt fascination.

"A bucking bronco?" he said, more to distract himself than anything else. Harry looked—amazing, really—with his head tilted back, ever so slightly, and his lean, wiry body practically shaking with tension. His throat all but screamed "bite me" and his lips—Draco tried not to think too hard about those. "Are you implying that you _have_ sexual restraint?"

"Well more than you, certainly," Harry replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "but…oh, hell…" His lashes fluttered, and Draco hadn't ever thought that could look so hot—_especially_ not on a guy. "It…doesn't take much to have more restraint than you," he managed finally.

"Oh, yeah?" Draco growled, and Harry swallowed.

Lip between his teeth, eyes screwed shut, and brow furrowed in concentration, Harry was like, the textbook example of what porn videos would look like if they featured chess club members instead of playboy bimbos: sex on legs—with glasses. And honestly, Draco thought that was a pretty accurate description of aforementioned tech geek at that moment.

"Y-yeah," came the reply, probably not as steadfast as intended.

Draco smirked. "Alright," he said, "let's see some of this famed 'sexual restraint'." And with that, he removed his hand. Harry nearly fell forward on top of him.

"Fuck!" was the immediate response, followed rapidly by several loud 'shh!'s from the audience, and then a long string of more subdued, prolific curses from Harry. "Draco," he hissed, "you can't just…you…" He grit his teeth and swallowed; Draco raised an eyebrow.

"Restraint?" he offered unhelpfully. If looks could kill, Draco would have burned to cinders.

"Draco, you fucking _asshole_, if you don't finish what you started, I swear-"

"You swear what, Potter?" he asked, smug as he leaned back in his chair. "You'll…tell the authorities on me? Because I sexually assaulted you—after you crawled onto my lap and shoved my hand into your crotch—and now I won't finish the job?" He folded his hands behind his head, surveying his handiwork with pride. "No," he said. "I think I like things just the way they are."

"_Draco_…"

"Aye?"

"Draco _please_…"

"If you want a job done right…"

"Oh, god…"

"Touch yourself, Potter."

Harry whimpered beautifully. A soft, "I hate you," was followed almost immediately by a hasty snap and zip, and Draco wet his lips as Harry's long fingers disappeared inside his pants. "Ah, _f-fuck_…"

Watching him, Draco came to a strange conclusion: Harry was quiet during sex. Soft gasps and pants, sharp hisses and the occasional indistinct muttering, yes—but _nothing_ in comparison to the throaty moans and groans he'd grown accustomed to with his ex's. It might have been because of the theatre setting—that he was _trying_ to be quiet—but somehow, Draco didn't think so. It looked too natural.

Draco wasn't exactly sure when his hand had dropped from behind his head to the front of his own pants, but it sure beat no contact, so he let it stay, rubbing small circles as he watched the show.

Harry wasn't 'beautiful' by any conventional standard—thin and wiry with too many sharp angles—but he _moved_ spectacularly, and his face read like a book. His back arched like a dancer with every downstroke and his throat convulsed repeatedly, lips parted and struggling for breath with the air of a man drowning. It was like watching a mime, sandwiched between agony and oblivion, and fuck if it wasn't a turn-on.

Draco's hand sped up. "You know," he observed breathlessly, "you don't actually look half bad like this, Potter."

Harry's rhythm stuttered and he swore. "F-fuck off…"

"Do you get a lot of practice?" Draco asked, ignoring the rebuttal. "Lock yourself in your room…what do you think about?"

"Shut…_up_…" Harry hissed, but his breath was coming in short, strangled gasps now, and the hand not on his cock was white-knuckled on the armrest beside him.

"I bet you don't do it very often," Draco mused, "and short, sloppy sessions when you do, because what you really want it a whole fuck lot more than your hand." He fumbled with the fastenings of his pants, struggling to simultaneously open them without maiming himself and keep his eyes glued to Harry. "Do you imagine yourself fucking…or being fucked?"

Something about the way Harry's wrist twitched erratically at the mention of being fucked made Draco strongly suspect the latter, and he nearly groaned aloud, hazily wondering how long it would take the theatre authorities to take action if he rolled Harry into the aisle right then and started ramming him into the carpet. Probably not long, he guessed. Then again, at this rate, it probably wouldn't _take_ long—two or three quick strokes into that pert ass and—

Harry came with the most exquisite whimper, and Draco did groan, eyes rolling back as his fingers finally made it past his pants to his straining erection and _oh fuck_ that felt good. Just a little tighter and faster and hell if Harry didn't look magnificent right then—head back and chest heaving, body still trembling from the aftershocks—and again, Draco vaguely considered rolling him out into the aisle, wondered how much trouble he'd get into and then almost laughed at the absurdity of it. But he was just so _close_, and if he could just…get…

"_Ohfuckinghell_-" Draco arched into an unexpected touch and instantly felt a hand on his mouth, muffling the moan that followed and temporarily sufficing to keep from blowing whatever cover they had left.

A moment later, "Public theatre," was hissed in his ear, and Draco blinked dizzily before eventually managing to nod.

"Right," he mumbled into Harry's palm, though it came out more like, "Rmhgt."

Apparently, that was satisfactory enough because Harry just "hmphed" nondescriptly and went back to what he was doing. Less than thirty seconds later, Draco was rutting deliriously into Harry's fist as he came, one hand on his cock and the other clasped firmly to Harry's aforementioned, perfectly-rounded ass. The whole experience was a serious competitor for the official title of "Best Orgasm of Draco's Life." He tried not to remind himself that its only competition also happened to involve Harry and—coincidentally—Harry's amazingly talented hands.

To avoid that, he buried his nose in Harry's neck, pulling him closer and drawing in the not-unpleasant combination of laundry detergent, cologne, popcorn, and—under it all, the faint, musky hint of fresh perspiration. He shut his eyes and was just beginning to wonder if he could get away with sleeping the rest of the movie this way when his wandering hands stumbled on something in Harry's back pocket. Brow furrowing, he tucked his fingers down to retrieve the mysterious merchandise. Almost immediately, he began snickering. Harry stirred between his legs.

"Wa's'funny?" came his muffled mumble of concern, soft and drowsy and not the least bit cute—at all.

"Worried you were going to get pregnant, Harry?" Draco asked, still barely containing his laughter, and Harry groaned into his shoulder.

Several indistinct curses later, Draco made out the words, "You found them," followed shortly after by, "…all mom's fault…" Then, Harry made an effort to sit upright, yawning as he did so and looking much like he'd have been very willing to consent to sleeping out the rest of the movie about thirty seconds prior. "Actually," he clarified once he'd situated himself, "I'm pretty sure it was more my mom worried that _you'd_ get pregnant."

"Oh? And she thought you were," Draco counted the wrappers, "an octopus?" he concluded.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Octopi have eight legs, Draco," he pointed out patiently in a tone eerily similar to the one he used during physics tutoring, "and _none_ of them are used in reproduction. Or…I don't think so," he added as an afterthought. "Perhaps if the octopi got really kinky and-"

"Okay, okay! Whatever," said Draco, simultaneously curious and mildly disturbed as he eyed the boy across from him. "You're really perverted, you know that?" Harry practically beamed under the praise. It was Draco's turn to roll his eyes, but he was smiling as he went back to studying the condoms. "Why'd she give you four?" he asked eventually.

At that, Harry frowned slightly. "Honestly," he said, "I'm not exactly sure. Something to do with my genetics?" Draco raised an eyebrow; Harry shrugged it off. "I was kind of busy trying to avoid the sex talk and get out the door as fast as possible. I never got the details."

"Hmm…" Draco twirled one between his fingers thoughtfully—over and under, like one might a pencil. Finally, he stopped and held it up between them. "We should use these," he said, and for a moment, Harry just stared.

After a long pause he opened his mouth, shut it, then opened again. At length he replied warily, "Alright. But not," He plucked the package from Draco's fingertips, cocking an eyebrow that dared him to object, "tonight. Agreed?"

Not tonight. But some other night, Draco thought. And that meant that this, whatever 'this' was, would continue. It meant that whatever they had—if they were even a 'they' and 'they' had anything at all—would continue. Also, arguably most importantly, it meant that Harry _wanted_ it to continue. All of that, to Draco, was good news. He grinned.

"Alright," he agreed. "Not tonight." But some other night, he promised himself again. Some other night, they would put Harry's mother's unbeknownst blessing to use.

A half hour or so later, the movie ended, and Draco, after a quick internal debate, walked Harry to his car. The wind had picked up outside, carrying with it a definite chill, and Harry was shivering by the time they reached his vehicle. Watching him, Draco thought of the old, corny black and white movies that came on late at night on the channels that no one watched. It was at this point, he thought, that if Harry were a girl, he could have shrugged off his jersey and slung it over his shoulders—smooth and chivalrous, like the football players always did for their dates in those movies. Then, he frowned, because Harry wasn't a girl—or his date, technically—so he shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot instead, eying the pavement and trying to think of something cool to say. Anything to say, for that matter.

"Well," said Harry, beating him to it, "I guess I'll…see you on Monday?"

Draco looked up, watched him pull his jacket tighter about his shoulders, and then made the mistake of glancing at his mouth. Faint, wispy puffs of steam escaped his lips with every exhale, and for a fleeting second, the temptation to take just one bold step forward and snuff out that steam, taste those trembling lips on his own, was dizzying. Inhaling sharply, he looked away.

"Yeah," he said, hoping his voice sounded steadier than he felt. "Right…Monday."

Harry was standing there, watching him, waiting, and Draco knew he still had time. He could still kiss him. One little step was all it would take, and oh, God, did he want to. Even just a brush would suffice; just one kiss goodnight. Then, a fraction of a second too soon, Harry dipped his head.

"Alright, then," he said. "Bye, I guess." And he opened his car door, and Draco watched, silently, as he slid in and pulled away into the night.

Alone, Draco shut his eyes and groaned, tilting his head back to the stars. "Fuck," he muttered, and as he trudged back to his car, kicking pebbles along the pavement as he went, he was pretty positive he'd never more regretted _not_ kissing someone in his life.

* * *

_A/N:_ There. Hopefully that makes it up to the people who weren't completely satisfied with the last chapter. Also, I hope you liked it just because... it will probably be the last chapter for a while. My writing is starting to slow down a little, but you guys _are_ very encouraging, so I'll try to keep it going as fast as possible.

Sorry to the person who wanted the movie to be Mamma Mia - I hope it's a consolation that I mentioned it, and no, the movies aren't supposed to be all from the same time; I know that part is inaccurate, I just couldn't be bothered to look up what year they would be seventeen and what movies would be in the theatre's in fall of that year.. so I just put down the movies I thought of and used a movie I'd seen recently. I figured you guys would care about as much about the movie as Draco did. Til next time! =)


	6. Chapter 6: Temperature

**A/N:** Sorry it took so long! I promise I'll try to get the next one out faster, but I can't guarantee anything. I hope you still enjoy it anyway. Oh, and I call Professor Snape "Mr. Snape" because no one calls teachers professors in highschool. That is all.

* * *

**Chapter Six| **Temperature

Monday. Harry scowled. His head hurt, his back hurt, his left toe still throbbed from where he stubbed it earlier that morning, he was cold, hungry, sopping wet, and if that weren't enough, he was also already at least thirty minutes late for school, if not more. Sighing, he shifted his backpack to the opposite shoulder and began trudging up the front steps to Merlin High, soaked sneakers squelching sloppily with every step. He hated Mondays.

If he were completely honest with himself, Harry would have to admit that his foul mood actually began about ten seconds before he climbed into his car Friday night. That, though, would mean admitting that he had really _wanted_ Draco to kiss him, and even considering that possibility tended to put him in an even worse mood.

So, instead, he blamed his mood on a variety of other things including, but not limited to: his faulty alarm clock—which had failed to wake him up on time—his mother—who had failed to inform him that the car had broken down—his car—which had broken down—his poor eyesight—which had lead him to stub his toe searching for his glasses—his lousy mood swings—which had caused him to swing wildly at the alarm clock when it finally had gone off and knock his glasses of his nightstand in the first place—and just about everything else which had ultimately lead to him walking to school, alone, in the rain, and arriving late, wet, freezing and starved.

When he first stepped inside, the air-conditioned air hit him hard, like a very unwelcome first taste of winter, and Harry swore, crossing his arms uselessly against the chill as it swept him tip to toe. By the time he made it to his locker, he couldn't feel his feet. Teeth chattering, he struggled over his locker combo with numb fingers and wondered if the office kept towels handy. Surely they wouldn't allow a student into class soaking wet?

Then again, Harry thought as he finally managed to work his lock open, any sane student probably would have stayed home long before they worked themselves into the mess he had.

Footsteps down the hall drew his attention upward, and he almost groaned aloud, sagging against his locker as Mr. Snape approached.

"Mr. Potter, is that you?" the teacher inquired. "What are you doing out of class? Shouldn't you be…" The sentence trailed off as he came close enough to pick up on all the details, and he frowned sordidly. "Mr. Potter, are you trying to break the necks of every member of the student body and faculty combined?"

"Er…what?" Harry asked blearily.

"The floor, Mr. Potter. You're sopping wet. Not to mention-"

"Mr. Snape!" an all-too-familiar voice called out from down the hall, accompanied by running footsteps, and Harry shut his eyes miserably, desperately wondering if life could get worse. "Mr. Snape," Draco said again, arriving at a half jog and looking surprisingly out of breath, "I was supposed to…give this to you." He held out a slip of paper Harry didn't recognize, and Snape took it. "I couldn't find you in the office, so—Harry?" Draco stopped talking abruptly, apparently noticing Harry for the first time. Harry shifted awkwardly as Draco's gaze started at his feet and rose, none too quickly, lingering far too long to be entirely casual. When grey eyes met green, Draco frowned. "What the h-…err…what happened to you?" he asked, and Snape raised an eyebrow.

"I was just trying to determine that myself," the teacher commented dryly, turning his eyes on Harry with a look that in no way resembled the one Draco gave him a moment before. Harry swallowed, vaguely aware of Draco's eyes roaming free now over his sopped body as he struggled in vain to concentrate on Snape.

"I…was…well, you see," he fumbled, cheeks flushing embarrassingly. "My alarm…it…err…" Well, fuck. Harry shut his eyes and took a breath, wondering what he wouldn't give for Ron's powers right then—invisibility, most specifically.

"Mr. Potter, you have some serious explaining to do," Snape said, stern and disapproving. "Perhaps you should meet me in my office and we can have a nice long talk about the proper manner in which to-"

"Sir?" Draco interrupted, then blushed when Snape turned to him. "Err, sorry, sir."

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Well, I was just thinking…umm…I mean he is…sort of wet…"

Harry almost choked in a barely-successful attempt to stifle his laughter, and Snape gave him a sharp look before returning his attention to Draco.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy," Snape acknowledged. "Do you have a better suggestion for how I should handle Mr. Potter's tardy and poor conduct?"

Poor conduct? Harry glared venomously at the injustice, but managed to keep his mouth shut.

"It's just that, well, I'm in weight-lifting right now," Draco explained. "That's where I'd be headed back to, and…I could show him to the locker room, since it's right on the way…get him some towels and a change of clothes. I mean, only if you thought that would be okay, sir. It's just…he can't really…go to class like that…right?"

If anything, Snape looked impressed. Surprised, but impressed. "Alright, Mr. Malfoy," he said at length, "you've got yourself a deal. Mr. Potter," He turned to Harry, "you're temporarily off the hook. But I want to see you immediately after you've made yourself suitable, do you understand?"

Harry nodded.

"And I believe you owe Mr. Malfoy a hearty thank you, as well."

"Erm…right," said Harry, and then Snape left, and Harry was on his own, alone in the hallway with Draco Malfoy, about to be lead down to the locker room where he would be alone, again, with Draco Malfoy, and he wondered what strange fates guided his miserable mortal life—something with a twisted sense of humor, in any case. "So," he muttered, turning to eye Draco, whose gaze seemed to have meandered down to somewhere in the vicinity of his rain soaked posterior, "Since when have you taken to sticking up for my sorry wet ass, huh?"

Draco temporarily postponed his examination of said body part in favor of looking up, a slight frown marring his features. Eventually, he shrugged. "Since I started taking to grabbing it, I guess," he answered, shoving his hands in his pockets and nodding his head off down the hall, apparently unconcerned with the matter. "Come on. Let's get you out of those clothes."

Suddenly, Harry wasn't quite so cold anymore. He swallowed. "Right. I'll umm…okay." He bent to scoop up his waterlogged backpack, then proceeded to follow Draco down the hall. Something told him Snape might have a while to wait.

"So," Draco began about thirty seconds into their trek, "you look like you just climbed out of the ocean, Potter. Did you _walk_ to school?"

Thunder clapped overhead, shaking the cheap ceiling panels, and the lights flickered all down the hall, creating an eerie, horror-movie effect that made Harry frown. "Actually," he replied, "yeah. I did."

Draco eyed him critically, looking skeptical, disapproving, and—concerned? He turned his head before Harry could analyze the look further. "Isn't that…dangerous? Or something?"

More thunder—a deep, slow roll that sounded like an approaching train, except several octaves lower—and Harry shuffled his backpack uneasily, unsettled by the obvious ferocity of the storm. "It…wasn't that bad when I left."

"Hnph." Draco's grunt was curt and unsatisfied, but he let the subject drop. "Here we are," he said a moment later, stopping outside a closed metal door and dragging a jumbled ring of keys from his pocket. Harry watched as he selected a small copper one and frowned.

"Is it always locked?" he asked.

Draco shrugged, twisting the key and giving the door a short shove. It came open without much trouble. "The football team uses it for changing and storage when in season. Same for basketball in the spring…I guess they just don't want people coming in and messing around without permission."

"Hm…I guess that makes sense," Harry said, following after Draco and taking in his surroundings with peaked curiosity.

It was a large room, well furnished, and newer looking than the rest of the school. The walls proudly sported the school colors and mascot in fresh paint, long benches lined the each one, several littered with scattered sports equipment, and the lockers looked to be in better condition than any Harry had seen in the halls. Around the corner, he saw signs of bathrooms and showers, and, once through with his optical circumnavigation of the room, he raised his eyebrows.

"Nice place," he commented. "I've never seen it before."

"You wouldn't," Draco said. "They reserve it for the sports teams only. No one else ever really comes in."

Harry nodded, but said nothing. Behind him, Draco pulled the door shut with a click, and Harry drew a slow breath. "So," he prompted, toeing off his shoes and curling his numb feet against the cool cement flooring, "I was promised towels?"

"Yeah. You should change first, though."

"What exactly-"

"Guys from the team leave their junk in here all the time," Draco explained. "Some of them never reclaim it, so we always have this huge pile of lost and found that no one ever looks at." He had crossed to the center of the room, but turned around then, surveying Harry's figure once more before frowning slightly. "I don't think anyone's as small as you," he concluded, "but I'm pretty sure you could find something that wouldn't fall off. No one would care, in any case, and at least it'll be dry."

"Ah," was Harry's brilliant reply. "Okay…um," He took another glance around the room, "Where's that, then?"

Draco pointed, and Harry followed his indication to a rather large box in the far corner of the room, tucked back at the end of the row of lockers. Great heaps of god-knows-what spilled from the edges, some of it littering the surrounding floor, and Harry almost winced at the daunting arrangement. Better than nothing, though, he conceded, and approached it warily.

After a prolonged period of sifting and winnowing, Harry ultimately settled on a loose white tee and a pair of faded black jeans at least three sizes too large—the smallest of the batch. Thunder drum rolled overhead as he stood, and he set his selections aside on the nearest bench.

"So," he said, suddenly anxious for conversation as he faced the fact that sooner or later, he was going to have to start taking clothes off, and Draco wasn't likely to leave anytime soon. "How was your weekend?"

Draco snorted. "Fine, I guess," he answered without enthusiasm. "You?"

Harry thumbed the hem of his shirt. "Lackluster," he replied.

That earned him a very puzzled look. "Lake-what?"

"Err…it could have been better," Harry clarified. He twisted his finger into the wet cloth, watching a small stream of water trickle to the floor as he did so, and frowned. It wasn't that he was shy or ashamed of his body, but the idea of stripping here, in front of Draco-

"Do you want me to turn around?" the quarterback asked impatiently. Seconds later, he caught Harry's soaking shirt just in time to avoid being hit in the face. "Hey!" he retorted, "I was just-"

"Prick," Harry sniped. "Where's my towel?"

Draco rolled his eyes, tossing the wet shirt to the side and taking his fill of Harry's new shirtless state. "Demanding, aren't you?" he said, gaze lingering long enough to make Harry shuffle under the observation. "And temperamental to boot…" Draco strode across the room, opening a closet down near the showers and dragging forth the requested towel. "Do you want white, tan, beige, or-"

"Just get me a damn-" Harry grunted as something warm and fluffy hit his chest, and suddenly Draco was right _there_, all soft grey eyes and hot breath and soft lips three inches from his face and-

Harry swallowed. "Draco-"

"You'll need to lose those pants too."

Harry opened his mouth, shut it, and curled his fingers in the towel, holding it subconsciously closer. "Right…"

"You can use one of those shower stalls, if you want," Draco said. Then, after a pause he added, "Unless you think you might need some help?" and Harry's neck burned.

"Um, no, that's…" He cleared his throat. "That's quite alright. I think…I can…ah…handle it. By myself, that is, yeah…" He tried to back up, almost tripped on his pants, and swore. After catching his balance, he hastily disappeared into one of the aforementioned stalls.

Outside, he heard Draco snickering and glowered at the white tiles that made up the shower wall, silently swearing revenge as he wrestled with his wet jeans. The soaked material clung to his skin like glue, sticking and catching, but the showers were spacious, so he eventually managed to get them off and, after a moment's debate, removed his boxers as well. No point in changing into dry pants if he had on wet underwear underneath.

The chosen black jeans practically fell off his hips, bunched hopelessly around his ankles and grated on certain sensitive parts of his anatomy, but at least they stayed up. The white tee looked more like a sheet than a shirt, but it masked how low slung the jeans were, so he decided not to worry about it. He emerged from the stall with the towel draped over his head, wringing out his old clothes as thoroughly as possible and stepping widely to avoid another embarrassing trip up on the bottoms of his pants.

"Where do you get your exercise?" was Draco's first question upon his exit.

Harry looked up mid-wring, boxers in hand and extended as he tried to extract as much water as possible from the drenched apparel. "Excuse me?"

"Your exercise," Draco repeated. He was leaning against one of the lockers, arms folded across his chest, key ring dangling from one finger and clinking as he swung it back and forth. "You must get it somewhere."

"Uh…" Harry slung all his old clothes over one of the benches, then sat down, turning to the process of tugging off his wet socks. "I don't know…why?"

Draco snorted, as if it were obvious. "'Cause you're fit, Potter, why the hell else? I always thought you were just skinny…didn't eat much or something. Under all the bags you wear all the time, you can't really tell."

Harry didn't know whether to be flattered or insulted or both. He decided to withhold judgment.

"But you're not just skinny," Draco continued. "You've got muscle too, and a fair amount of it." He pushed up off the lockers. "You don't get that from hacking computer programs, Potter. What do you do?"

"I, umm…" Harry hung his socks over the bench beside his pants. "I run," he answered. And it was true. So he ran for his life as opposed to exercise, so what? If he was fit because ghosts and magic-slinging specters seemed frequently bent on destroying him and his friends, so be it. Draco didn't need to know the details. He spent a lot of time running.

"Every day?" Draco asked.

Harry thought of all the various invaders into their hometown' all the evil-doers with stray bits of dangerously unharnessed magic using it for personal gain. He thought of running to and from vehicles, plans gone wrong, last minute escapes. He thought of Ron and Hermione and way, way too many close calls.

"Yeah," he said, trying to remember the name of the last eerie magic-wielder to invade their hometown with aspirations of world domination. It had become such a habit now, they all sort of blended together. "Pretty much."

"Fast?"

Harry looked up, surprised to find Draco's eyes on his face for once, as opposed to everywhere else. "Fast as I can," he answered.

A long pause ensued, and he knew he should get up and gather his stuff, wring his socks out one last time and put his shoes back on, go see Snape and get on to class. For some reason, though, he never got around to the actual getting up part, and so he sat there, watching Draco watch him and contemplating the meaning of life—his own, in particular.

Finally, he sighed. "Draco-"

"You didn't have to put your shirt back on."

"I-" Harry frowned as the statement sunk in. "Umm…what?"

"Your shirt," Draco said again. "You looked better without it."

Harry tilted his head speculatively. "Oh?" he said, almost amused. "And the rest of the school will just…accept my going around topless without comment?"

"Who said anything about the rest of the school?"

Harry smiled but shook his head. "I did," he said, grabbing his damp socks and standing with every intention of going over to get his shoes and preparing to leave for Snape's office. He didn't make it two steps before Draco's hand shackled his wrist.

"Wait."

"Draco-"

"I…" Draco faltered there, choosing his words carefully. "I had…fun…Friday," he said at last.

Harry's mouth opened, but instead of, "I have to go," he said, "I did too," and the next thing he knew Draco was stepping forward and he was stepping back, and somewhere along the line his back hit a wall. Then Draco had one hand to the side of his face, caging him in, and the other on his forearm, tugging him forward, and when he opened his mouth, "Wait, Draco, we shouldn't," mutated halfway through into something closer to, "Whmm, Draco…" as Draco's lips descended on his own and then-

Then it didn't matter anymore.

Soft and smooth and salty: Harry's lashes drooped as Draco's mouth slid across his, swallowing his whisper of, "Fuck, you're warm," and effectively driving any notions of Snape and tardy slips to the farthest reaches of his conscious. Right then, Draco tasted of sweat and peppermint, the lingering remains of weight-lifting mixed with—chewing gum, perhaps?—sweet and saline and fresh and breathtaking all at once. Everything else could wait.

Draco's kiss devoured him—hot and hungry—a weekend's worth of pent up sexual energy put to the sole task of driving Harry Potter insane. Before long, his grip on Harry's forearm slid up, ultimately finding purchase at the back of his neck and immediately weaving tightly into the dark, damp mess of hair there, guiding him purposefully from one motion to the next. Harry's hands on Draco's chest, originally a barricade, curled into the fabric of his jersey, urging him forward in a brazen demand for more contact, more heat, more _everything_. Then, teeth caught his lower lip, tugging and licking and sucking and before he knew it, Harry was on his toes, arching into Draco's pin and panting into his mouth and wondering why the hell he'd never been kissed like _this_ before.

A hand skimmed his stomach, but Harry barely noticed: Draco's tongue was venturing past his teeth now, spreading his lips wide and sliding across his own and dipping and curling and _fucking_ his mouth, and Harry shuddered, throwing pride to the wind as his hips arched of their own accord and his knees quivered dangerously. Surely this kind of thing was illegal somewhere…

Then, very abruptly, he became aware that at some point, kissing and touching had elevated to grinding and groping, and Draco's thumb was skirting under the hem of his pants, and as fucking _wonderful_ as that felt-

"Shit," Harry cursed, stilling Draco's hand in bold defiance of every hormone in his body currently screaming something along the lines of: Draco, Harry, sweat, sex, floor, now. "Wait, Draco…this isn't…oh, damn." Harry shut his eyes, visibly shaking as he made a very conscious effort to regain some semblance of control over his heart and lungs. Draco's treacherously close proximity wasn't helping things. "First," he panted breathlessly, "what…was _that_?"

"Hn," Draco's breath slid down his neck like a hot fog, humid and clingy, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with his early morning encounter with Mother Nature. "Something I thought about all fucking weekend," Draco answered thickly, and Harry shivered as teeth caught his earlobe, gently nipped and tugged, and—oh _hell_. "Something I should have done Friday night…"

"Damn right," Harry snapped, though it came out less forceful than he intended, partially due to the fact that somewhere along the line, their lips had begun meeting again—short, breathy kisses stolen between words—and if nothing else, Draco knew how to _kiss_. Then, Draco's hand ventured in dangerous territory again, reminding Harry of why he pulled back in the first place, and he swore. Stopping him the second time was immensely more difficult than the first. "Draco-"

"Why _not_?" Draco insisted, frustrated and flushed and fucking _hot_, prep crowd or no.

"Because…" Harry swallowed, suddenly finding it very difficult to answer that question himself. "Because, I…"

"You're not wearing any _underwear_, Potter," Draco reminded him huskily, rolling his hips forward for emphasis, and Harry made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, chopped and breathy, as his body jerked under the stimulation.

"Yes," he answered weakly, "but that's not…" He shut his eyes. "Damn it, Draco…I have a date with Snape. We can't-"

"Fuck Snape," Draco murmured.

"But…mm…" Well, that just worked splendidly, Harry thought sardonically as Draco's lips closed over his again, effectively muting him. "But," he put in as soon as a spare moment arose, "I don't _want_ to fuck Snape."

That—well—that _did_ work splendidly.

Instantly, Draco groaned, and not in the good way. When he pulled back, he gave Harry the most desperate, partially mortified, and exceedingly put-out expression he had ever witnessed, accompanied by an, "Ew," that said millions. "_Harry_," he whined, but Harry was slipping out from under him, stuffing on his socks and squelching into his shoes. "Did you really, really have to-"

"Obviously," Harry pecked his cheek, "I really, really did," he said, thoroughly bemused by the fact that football players could, in fact, pout—and rather adorably at that. "Oh, come on," he soothed a moment later, "you'll live. If it makes you feel better, I promise to skip out on the underwear some other time, alright?"

That got Draco's attention. "Really?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Would I say it if I didn't mean it?"

"Maybe. I don't know you that well."

"Hm," Harry tugged on his backpack, "We should work on that," he said. "Until then, yes, really. You leave me be to go deal with Snape, and sometime in the future, I'll leave the boxers at home."

"Do I choose the day?"

"You…umm…" Harry considered this. "I…guess. Yeah. Sure. If you want."

Draco held out his hand, and for a moment Harry just stared. "Shake on it, Potter."

Harry blushed. "Oh." But he accepted the hand, and this time, there was no startled noise when Draco tugged him forward, just a slight tumble, then a contented hum as their lips met.

Maybe Mondays weren't so bad after all.


	7. Chapter 7: Pressure

**Chapter Seven| **Pressure

"Football? You call that _football_? I've seen _road kill_ play better than you! That was pathetic! That was beyond pathetic! You're all-"

About there, Draco stopped listening. Sweat stung his eyes. His thighs burned, his shoulders ached, and his whole body felt like it had been run over by a herd of stampeding rhinos, or, in this case, the East Bay High yellow-jacket linebackers. His best running back had twisted his ankle on their last pass, and they were back on offense, Merlin High Magicians down, twenty to nothing. It was only the first quarter.

"Draco! Are you even _listening_ to me?"

Lifting his head blearily, Draco tried to focus on his coach, squinting through the sweat and stadium lights and coming up with little more than a foggy blur. Just as well. He'd seen all too many puffy-faced men, red with fury, exploding behind their beards as they tried, in vain, to scream their teams to victory.

"Yeah?" he replied. Even he had to admit it didn't sound very convincing.

"I've heard more convincing retorts from dishtowels, Malfoy. You're the quarterback, for God's sake! At least pretend to be paying attention! You think you can manage that for me?"

"Sure." Whatever. Draco loved this game. He fucking _loved_ it. But he hated to lose. And all his team _did_ was lose. He grimaced, trying to will down his headache and wondering why he bothered, why it mattered so much.

"You look like mud on that field, Malfoy. Quit running the damn ball and take a hit every once in a while, alright? Your legs are mush and the team can't take any more flack." Dully, Draco nodded, only half listening, and the coach gave up on him, turning back to the team. More shouting ensued, and then they were up.

"Just remember," came the final shout as players were issued out onto the field, "if we want to have any chance against these guys we have to run them into the ground! _Now_!" And so went the final call to get the team screaming, but the answering war cry was half-hearted, and as Draco stepped out onto the field, he felt the first drops of rain.

They fared better the second quarter, but not by much. Another boy filled in as a runner, playing better than he ever had, and they took fifty yards within the first few minutes back in before the yellow-jacket defense finally brought them down. After that, the line teeter-tottered, ending with the yellow-jackets holding still at twenty, and the magicians up seven, for a final score of twenty to seven come halftime.

As Draco sauntered back, exhausted, to the sidelines after the final horn blow, Blaise met him with a look that meant _something_ was up, and he was about to hear about it. Draco sighed, snatching a towel from the nearest bench and promptly collapsing.

"Do I really have to hear this now?" he asked, draping the blessedly damp cloth over his neck and palming his throbbing left shoulder with a wince. Blaise frowned.

"You look awful," he said.

"Thanks," Draco muttered, but he accepted the offered bottle of water. After popping the cap and downing half in one go, he wiped his mouth on the back of his arm, then eyed Blaise more speculatively. "So," he began at length, "what's up?"

"You look _awful_," he repeated, and Draco rolled his eyes.

"So you've said," he grumbled. "Got something new?"

Blaise shook his head. "No, man, that's not it. I mean…you look like…" He rubbed the back of his head, then scowled, dropping down to the bench beside Draco. "You like you don't give a shit anymore. You look like you don't care about this team, like this doesn't _matter_ to you."

Draco tugged the damp towel off the back of his neck, letting it flop lifelessly to the seat beside him. "You coach now?" he muttered glumly.

"Draco-"

"Of course it fucking matters!" Draco snapped, standing and scowling at the world in general. Maybe he'd feel better if he had something to pound on. "It's just…what's the point, huh? Can you tell me that? This is me. This," He threw his hands out to indicate the field, now receiving its fair share of rain, "is me. It's what I do. It's what I _can_ do…maybe _all_ I can do. And even then, it's…" He sighed, losing drive again and shaking his head. "It's the only thing that could ever get me anywhere, and I'm not good enough for it to make any difference."

Blaise eyed him. "And you just now decided to get all philosophical on us?"

Draco frowned, opened his mouth, then shut it again.

His best friend sighed. "You need to beat something up, man…or get laid." Draco gave him a sharp look and Blaise threw his hands up in surrender. "Hey, look, all I know, is you seem a bit out of it, okay? When was the last time you relaxed and hung out with the crowd, huh?"

Draco contemplated this.

"You've been working too hard, man. People are starting to wonder."

"Wonder?" Draco looked almost threatening. "Wonder about what?"

"Well, ever since you started that tutoring thing with the geek kid-"

"Harry."

"Potter, right. You just haven't been the same. I haven't seen you around. You've been missing practices-"

"I have tutoring."

"Every _day_?"

"Yeah, Blaise, every day," Draco repeated, suddenly a good deal more pissed than he had a right to be. "Look, if I don't keep my grades up, I can't be here at all, alright? From what I can see, the team hasn't leapt ahead of me in skill after all those practices, so I really don't see what the big deal is."

Blaise waited a moment, then finally said, "It's just your reputation I'm worried about, man, alright? You've _never_ been this dedicated to school. Since when does Draco Malfoy spend an hour and half, five days a week, after school locked in a physics lab studying, huh? People'll think something's up."

"So I care about football."

"Not the way you're playing tonight, you don't."

Draco grit his teeth, willing himself calm. "Nothing…is up, Blaise. Okay?"

Blaise eyed him dubiously. "Come to the beach tomorrow," he said finally, making it a statement as opposed to an offer. "Six o'clock."

Draco scowled, dropping his head and palming his temples. "Isn't it cold for swimming?" he asked.

"Bonfire, Draco," Blaise corrected. "Bonfire, food, chicks, and the oldest chaperone is twenty-six. Talk to your teammates, loosen up a bit…and forget that tutoring for once. It'll be good for you."

"Hn."

"You'll thank me later for this."

"Right," Draco muttered, and he watched Blaise push up off the wall, eyes on the half-time pizza, courtesy of the PTA.

"Just say you'll go alright? And talk to that tutor of yours…"

"Harry?"

"Potter, yeah," Blaise reiterated. "See if you can't arrange to have sessions like, only every other day or something, so you can make at least some of the practices. It feels like you're driftin', Draco, and I don't wanna lose you, you got it? Six."

"Six," Draco repeated. "Right. I'll see what I can do…"

Twenty four hours later, he was standing alone on the shore, moonlight glistening over a glassy ocean, highlighting every ripple and dip in a shimmering display fit for the cover of some cheesy romance novel. He glowered at it.

Why had he come again?

Stooping down, he gathered a small stone from the sand, palming it several times over before finally tossing it out and watching it plunk without a single skip into the murky depths, momentarily marring the picturesque perfection. This wasn't how he wanted to spend his weekend.

"Here you are," a feminine voice drawled, drawing him from his thoughts, and he glanced back. "I wondered where you'd run off to…" Pansy's figure was a shadowy silhouette against the crimson glow of the bonfire behind her. "Care for some company?" she asked.

Draco watched her approach, dark hair catching the wind like a mini cape, her slender arms folded across her chest for warmth, and he frowned. Company was the last thing he wanted. Instead of voicing that, however, he just shrugged, keeping his mouth shut and turning back to the ocean.

"It is beautiful…" she murmured, and he looked down to find her beside him. When he said nothing, she glanced up, eyes a soft grey-brown that caught the moonlight. He wondered what Harry's eyes would look like in the moonlight. Then, frowning, he pushed the notion away—not a safe train of thought. "The ocean," she clarified, and Draco mentally shook himself back into reality.

"Yeah," he agreed. "It's…nice."

She sighed, a soft sound that caught the breeze, and he watched her shiver. Pansy was a girl, he reminded himself. If he threw his coat over _her_ shoulders, it would be just as smooth and chivalrous as it was in all those corny black and white movies. It was odd, he thought, realizing that he didn't want to.

"I've missed you, you know," she said quietly after a time, and he figured it was pointless to point out that he hadn't gone anywhere. "I barely see you anymore, and you seem so…distant. I…" Her voice wavered, eyes glistening, and Draco's gut clenched.

'_Don't cry_,' he prayed silently. '_**Please**__ don't cry_.'

He hated it when girls cried—always so wet and messy and red and puffy—and so much drama to boot. If they cried around a guy, they always seemed to feel obliged to spill their life story right then and there, all through the sniffles and tears.

She didn't cry.

Instead, "Would you kiss me?" she asked, and Draco almost wished she'd cried.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He realized then, with painful clarity that he didn't _want_ to kiss her, and it was a groundbreaking moment for him. At the same time, though, he knew he had no choice—not if he wanted to retain any semblance of his reputation, that is—and he swallowed an awkward lump in his throat. Part of being king of Merlin High was tending to the wishes of the queen.

He caught her chin in his fingertips, but her skin was too pale against his—almost white—and when he dropped his head, bringing their mouths smoothly together, her lips were warm, but limp and unresponsive, not to mention far too thin. He tried to encourage participation, but instead of returning his efforts, she merely went slack in his arms, nothing but soft, meager submission, almost to the point of lifelessness—like kissing a doll. Even her hair felt wrong.

When they broke, he nearly groaned aloud in frustration. He had a cheerleader pressed to his chest, warm, willing, and wanting, but all he could think about was a stick skinny techy with sharp green eyes and a smile to make gods fidget.

"Pansy-"

"Draco…" His name was a moan on her lips, breathy and beckoning, but it sounded off, unsettling, and his heart stuttered with something oddly close to panic as she caught his hand, drawing it up past her waist, over her stomach, and finally to the heartbeat in her chest. "No one will notice," she murmured, "if we disappear for a little while…"

Draco glanced sharply back to the bonfire with sudden desperate longing. "But-"

"Come _on_, Draco," she cooed. "Relax. It'll be…fun." And her hands were small in his, leading him off down the beach, into the darkness, until the mighty bonfire was nothing but a dim red firefly in the distance.

Fun.

Right.

Draco shut his eyes, swallowing his pulse as they sank into the sand. He racked his brain for something useful to say, anything to defer her, but nothing came to mind that wouldn't send his reputation spiraling into murky oblivion in about two seconds flat. Sadly enough, all he could think of as she pulled his body atop hers, was how long it was going to take to get the sand out of his clothes, and that the situation might have been slightly more bearable if she wore glasses. He sincerely hoped Harry was having a better night than he was.

* * *

**A/N: **The next chapter will have Harry in it, I promise; sorry that it's short and sort of boring, but I needed to let everyone in on some of the background plot development stuff. We'll be back to Harry/Draco lovin' soon. =) (At least Draco thought about Harry a lot? ? ?)


End file.
